


(the end of fear is) where we begin

by samyazaz



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, F/M, Magic, Marriage of Convenience, Science, Slow Burn, Trust Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-29
Updated: 2017-06-29
Packaged: 2018-11-21 05:43:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 80,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11351076
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samyazaz/pseuds/samyazaz
Summary: "What if there was?" Combeferre asks abruptly, when she's halfway to her feet.She stops and blinks at him. "Was what?""Someone willing to marry you." There's a flush of pink on his cheeks that's enthralling, but his gaze doesn't waver."Then I'd tell them no." Éponine snorts. "Anyone who wants to marry a strange woman sight-unseen is after something, and I've had my fill of being used.""Someone who's not a complete stranger, then. Someone you've shared a conversation with." He glances around them at the cafe, at the table between them, and clears his throat. "Shared a meal with. What would you say then?"





	(the end of fear is) where we begin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sweetpollyolliver](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sweetpollyolliver/gifts).



> Written for sweetpollyolliver, who has the patience of a saint <3

Éponine's only at the Musain because she's mostly sure that her parents won't know to look in the back room for her, and because she's one hundred percent certain that if they do, the others will stand to defend her. Grantaire will, at least, and he's closer with the others than she is. His friends will stand with him, and their friends with them, and so it seems the one place in Paris where she can at least be somewhat assured that Papa won't come storming in and drag her off by the ear and scold her for wasting her talents on something that won't bring in money for the family.

They're all talking about something, getting worked up over it, but she's not listening. They do this every week, and she's got bigger problems than their latest pet crisis, she's got magic sizzling through her fingertips and a cut that's still bleeding sluggishly across her palm if she's not careful, and the memory of Azelma sneaking into her room this morning, wide-eyed and trembling and whispering, "Look, Ép," and handing Éponine her looking glass.

Éponine had barely had to touch it to know that Azelma had spelled it, and her heart sank. She'd glanced in the mirror and seen a girl prettier than she knew herself to be staring back at her, and she'd known she couldn't allow Maman or Papa to know of it. Azelma had probably just wanted pretty things to look at, but their parents would look at it and see nothing but opportunity. They'd see all the high-born ladies they could sell such a mirror to, all the ways they could tell someone it was a mirror spelled to show a person's inner beauty, or their true reflection, or the goodness of their heart, and make half a fortune telling lies and preying upon others' insecurities. And that's bad enough, but worse would be the way they'd make Azelma work at it, shoving mirrors in front of her and exhorting her to spell them until she'd forgotten that magic could be used for anything but taking advantage of people.

So Éponine had hissed, "Don't tell anyone of this, not anyone," and pressed her fingers to the glass and laid her own spell over Azelma's, just enough that if her parents found it they'd read Éponine's magic on it and not her sister's. And then she'd taken the mirror and dashed it to the ground, shattered it into a hundred pieces so their parents couldn't ever do anything with it.

And now she's here, tucked in amongst these people she doesn't know well but who are the closest thing to friends she has, because Maman and Papa will be furious when they see that she's done magic and then destroyed it and she knows that something has to be done but she isn't sure what. She'd sent Azelma off with Gavroche before she'd left the house and the shattered mirror behind her, with half the coin to Éponine's name and instructions to treat themselves but most importantly to stay away from the house until Éponine says otherwise, but she's tried all day and she can't find a solution. She could take them and hide away in some boarding house with them, but Maman and Papa know half the disreputable people in Paris, and they'd be pounding down the door before sun-up.

She doesn't notice much about the meeting until someone clears their throat very close to her, and she jerks her attention away from her thoughts and back to the present. There's someone standing before her table -- a friend of a friend of Grantaire's, she thinks, but she can't quite remember his name -- looking down at her with his hat in his hands and a frown on his face. She glances past him and realizes with a start that the meeting's ended, most of the rest of the group gone already, the last few stragglers making their way out. Grantaire catches her eye over the man's shoulder and lifts his brows in a silent question. She shrugs, because how is she supposed to know yet if she needs an excuse to slip away from him or not? But he's one of Grantaire's friends, or near enough, so she's not too worried. They're a little excitable for her taste, but they're not a bad lot.

She focuses on the friend again. "Did you need something?"

He clears his throat and grabs a chair from one of the nearby tables, and pulls it up to hers so he can lower himself into it. "Actually, I wanted to ask you the same thing."

"Do I _look_ like I need something?" she demands, stiffening and scowling at him to make the answer plain.

He doesn't shrink back like most would under the force of her glare. He scarcely even seems to register it, just says in that same even voice, "You look tired, and unhappy."

"The whole city's tired and unhappy. The only ones who aren't are the ones who are rich enough to afford not to be."

He hums a little, like he's actually thinking about her words, lending them weight and credence instead of just talking past her until he can get to what's really on his mind. "I don't know that I agree with you on that point," he says after a moment. "But even if it is true, it shouldn't have to be. You're Éponine, aren't you? Grantaire's friend? He talks about you, sometimes."

She jolts to her feet, her heart hammering against her chest. "He _better not have._ "

He stays seated, looking up at her mildly. "He cares about you. People talk about those who are important to them. It's the nature of friendship."

"He had no right at all--" She grabs her coat and means to storm after Grantaire, but the other one is holding his hands up like he means to placate her with the gesture.

"Please," he says, and he looks so earnest. "He's never said anything specific. He only speaks of you the way anyone would of a friend. But there's meaning in what a person doesn't say, too, and I gather from what he's not said and the things he's careful to avoid altogether that you're in a bad spot. And this group, all of us, we're here because we want to help people. Perhaps we could help you, if you'd let us."

Éponine lets out a harsh laugh. "There isn't a thing any of you can do to help me."

"You can't know that."

" _You_ can't know it. You don't even know what I need help with!"

He gets a sudden intense look about him, and she realizes her mistake. She never should have admitted to needing anything, much less help. He smiles after a moment of surprise, and if there were a hint of smugness to it she would spin on her heel and leave him behind with all his sanctimoniousness. But his smile is warm, and it seems as genuine as the rest of him, and he says, "Tell me, then, and we'll see," and Éponine has a sharp refusal poised on the tip of her tongue until he adds, "I'll buy you supper while we talk. It's late, you must be hungry. I know I am."

Éponine's ravenous, but she won't admit that. But he's looking hopeful, and he seems like he wants her to let him help so much, and Éponine knows what to do with men who want something from her. And with the memory of Azelma's spell shining from the mirror, she's desperate enough to do it. "Azelma and Gavroche, too," she says, and makes her voice firm, uncompromising.

He blinks at her, and his smile only dims a little beneath the shadow of his puzzlement. "Who are they?"

"My sister and brother."

And just like that the smile's back again, easy and open. "Certainly, then. Did they come to the Musain with you?"

She shakes her head and hopes she's not making a mistake, doing this. But a free meal is more than she can turn down, when she's not sure where her next one will come from once Papa discovers what she did. "We can go get them. You don't mind walking?"

"Not at all." He gets to his feet and holds the door open for her, like she's some sort of high-bred lady. She snorts as she slides through, and he says, "Lead the way," as he falls into step beside her.

*

It isn't difficult to find the children. Éponine knows them well enough to know where Gavroche would want to go, given a day and the freedom to do as he wishes, and she knows that Azelma's more likely to indulge him than to pitch a battle over it. Along the way, she learns that her would-be savior's name is Combeferre and that even once he's obtained her agreement to a meal together, he's still just as earnest and gentle as he had been, almost like it's how he really is rather than some sort of ploy to gain her trust.

She'd like him better, and trust him easier, if he weren't so pleasant. She knows unpleasant folks, and what they want and how to read them. It's the agreeable sort like Combeferre who are too busy smiling and nodding and saying kind things for you to ever know where you stand with them.

Still, a meal's a meal. She can keep her opinions to herself long enough for Combeferre to see them all fed, for the children's sake, if not her own. They walk a short distance to a cafe Combeferre knows and Éponine gets Gavroche and Azelma settled at a table, then waves Combeferre over to another one, close enough to be sure they don't get into trouble but not so close that the children will overhear their conversation.

"Now then," Combeferre says, lacing his fingers together and watching her like she's the most interesting thing in the cafe. "Tell me what it is you need."

Éponine stares down at the tabletop and traces her finger along a series of gouges some careless or destructive patron left in its surface. She tells Combeferre the truth, because her parents may be crooks and thieves but she's not the sort to make a deal and then renege on her half of the bargain. She isn't so specific that he could find them and call the police down on them, if that's his aim, and she skirts around anything even remotely tangential to magic, but everything she tells him is the truth, and she confesses as much of it as she can bear to.

"So you see," she says, when she's finished and he's still too quiet for her to know if he believes her or if he pities her or if he's realized that she's right after all and she's beyond his ability to assist. "Unless there's someone in your group who cares to marry me, there's not a thing you or anyone else can do for me. So thank you for the meal, but we'll be--"

"What if there was?" Combeferre asks abruptly, when she's halfway to her feet.

She stops and blinks at him. "Was what?"

"Someone willing to marry you." There's a flush of pink on his cheeks that's enthralling, but his gaze doesn't waver.

"Then I'd tell them no." Éponine snorts. "Anyone who wants to marry a strange woman sight-unseen is after something, and I've had my fill of being used."

Combeferre smiles again, not quite so broad or bright as before. There's a little caution in it now, and it makes Éponine wary. "Someone who's not a complete stranger, then. Someone you've shared a conversation with." He glances around them at the cafe, at the table between them, and clears his throat. "Shared a meal with. What would you say then?"

Éponine drops her hands down to the tabletop, spreads them flat across the wood grain. "Are you proposing to me?" she demands, and there's a sick clench in her stomach. If she had a drink, she'd be tempted to hurl it in his face.

Combeferre must realize it, because he pulls back, leaning into his seat, and the wariness builds up in his eyes. "I'm assessing options. It's up to you which one you choose, or if you choose any at all. But it _is_ an option available to you. And it would free you from your parents' rule."

"And subject me to a husband's instead! Why would you do that? Why would you offer to marry some girl you don't even know?" It may not be sight-unseen, but it's near enough. They're strangers. Letting him buy her a meal doesn't change that. There's only one reason she can think of that a man would want to marry someone like her, and it makes her blood boil. "Are you trying to get under my skirts? Because I won't be touched, not for a hundred suppers, not for a thousand--"

Combeferre rocks back, his hands coming up between them, palms spread, his eyes so wide and startled that she knows it's genuine. "No, please, you misunderstand me. I wouldn't ask that of you. I wouldn't ask anything of you."

"People don't do that," Éponine says, her heart thumping, because he must want _something_ from her in exchange, and if it's not to fuck her then she doesn't know what, but it must be something she's not going to like. "They don't just marry strangers off the street who they don't even know out of the goodness of their heart and ask for _nothing_ in return."

"I don't want anything from you, Éponine," he says, low and quiet like he wants to make sure she's listening. "I consider Grantaire a friend, and he considers you one. I'd like to help, if I can, but that's your choice, too."

They get their food, finally. Éponine eats quickly, both because she truly is ravenous and because it keeps her from having to continue this conversation with Combeferre. He watches her for a moment, like he's waiting for her to come up for air and say something. When she doesn't, he lets out a little sigh and eats as well, but he keeps glancing at her between bites, like maybe she'll change her mind and start chatting again.

When she's finished eating, and the children too, she gives them a look and a nod towards the door, and then she gets to her feet. "Thank you for the food," she says, because she may not be the sort of well-bred lady he's been treating her as, but she does have _some_ manners. "And for... for wanting to help."

It costs her something to say it, but he's the first person she's known who's even suggested it were possible, and that means something.

"It's the least I could do," Combeferre says. "I hope we'll see you at the Musain again?"

His voice rises at the end, making it into a question instead of a statement, but she doesn't give him an answer. She doesn't know why he would hope that, when he scarcely knows her and the others, aside from Grantaire, don't know her at all. All she did was sit in the back and take up space. They have no reason to welcome her back, and she has no reason to go.

She herds Azelma and Gavroche off, listening to their excited chatter about the excitement they had that day, all the trouble they got themselves into that probably ought to horrify her, but it's the one thing that feels normal and dependable right now when everything else is crumbling around her, and so it just makes her smile. Gavroche keeps glancing at her sidelong as he talks, like he's expecting her to start scolding him for the things he's telling her about, but she just pulls them both in closer against her sides and tries not to think about what might be waiting for her when they get home.

*

Papa grabs her by the arm late one evening, when Gavroche and Azelma have already gone to bed, and gets in her face to snarl, "Now you listen here, girl. I know what you've been doing and we won't have it." For a sickening second, she thinks he means about the Musain and Combeferre and the offer he made her. But before she can stammer out some sort of an explanation that might placate him, he continues, "You think just because your mother and I can't do magic ourselves, we don't know the look and the feel of it?" He drags her in even closer and hisses, " _I know about the mirror._ "

Éponine takes a careful breath, and works to keep her voice even as she says, "Papa, we talked about the mirror. It was an accident."

"Breaking it?" he demands, his voice as cold as a winter's night. "Or laying your own spell over someone else's?"

She freezes, everything in her going icy. "I don't know what you mean," she says, the words forced through numb lips.

"Don't lie to me, girl!" Papa shakes her roughly. "I know there was another spell on that mirror. You did a good job obscuring it, though, didn't you? If you worked half so hard at helping your family out, we wouldn't be struggling the way we do. So you're going to make it up to us and tell me whose spell you were trying to cover up. Was it Gavroche? He's young to have developed a talent but I always thought it was going to be strong in him. He's clever, too, he'll make us more money than you ever have. Was it him? Or was it your sister?"

"It was my spell," Éponine snarls, wrenching out of his grip. "Only mine. The first one didn't work out right so I laid another over it. It was _mine_."

Papa just snorts, raking her with a disdainful look. "We'll see."

As soon as his attentions have turned elsewhere, Éponine slips away and goes to her own bed, where she lies curled beneath the covers, feeling chilled and hollow long into the night.

In the morning when she wakes, she comes out into the house to discover that Azelma and Gavroche have both risen before her. That's no surprise, when they slept so much earlier and easier than she did, but what _is_ a surprise is that Maman and Papa are up as well, and both of the children have mirrors in their hands.

"Go on, then, let's see what you can do," Papa says to Gavroche, all kindness and too-avid smiles, and Gavroche looks bored and a moment away from mutiny. But Maman is cooing kind words in Azelma's ear and Azelma doesn't look bored at all. She stares at the mirror in her hands like she's trying. She falters when she catches Éponine's eye across the room, and lays the mirror down and says, "Maman, I'm _tired_. Can't I try again later? My head hurts."

Maman relents, because she can't not without dropping the kind and loving facade, and sends Azelma off to fetch some water to help her head, and Éponine glides past them all and smiles like she's noticed nothing amiss and feels as though she's stepped outside of her own body, watching from a distance instead of controlling her own actions. And it's a blessing, because she doesn't think she could play calm and serene so well if she tried.

She smiles and makes pleasant conversation while they eat, and all the while Papa eyes her across the table like he's waiting for her to crack.

Gavroche may have neither interest in nor inclination for magic, and Azelma's clever enough to lead their parents along for a little while. But it can't last, and if Papa already suspects the truth of the mirror, it's not likely to last long at all.

She waits until evening, when Maman and Papa have left to go peddle their charms in the market, and then she gathers Gavroche and Azelma up and holds their hands tightly as she leads them out of the house.

She's shaking all over, a fine tremor from the crown of her head all the way down to her heels. But she keeps her back straight and her head high and she doesn't falter, not for a single step. Not until they reach the Musain and stand before the door to the back room, where she can hear muffled voices raised in conversation or debate.

"Éponine?" Azelma tugs on her hand and looks up at her, eyes wide and solemn. "What is this place? Why are we here?"

Éponine takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders. "We're here to see friends," she says, and pushes the door open and leads them through.

The conversation doesn't stop for her. She makes her way through the room to a table at the back, pushes on Gavroche's shoulder until he drops into a chair and then sits with Azelma beside him. Gavroche slumps back in his seat, arms crossed, expression mulish. "This is _boring_ ," he says with a scowl. "Why are we here?"

"Hush," she says. "We won't be here long."

When the meeting ends, she doesn't have to seek Combeferre out. He comes to her, crouching down on the other side of the table, smiling at her. It's warm, if a little reserved, and she supposes she can't blame him for being uncertain. "I didn't expect you'd come back."

"I didn't expect I would either." She takes a deep breath and keeps her spine straight, her chin up. "I want to accept your offer."

Combeferre considers her across the table. "Want to? But aren't going to?"

She lets all her air out on a rush. She needs him, and there's a part of her that panics at the thought. She's always known that the safest thing was never to rely on anyone but herself. It takes all her strength to say, "I didn't want to assume the offer still stands. You might have changed your mind, with time to think it over."

"No," he says quietly. "I wouldn't have. I haven't. It still stands, if you want it."

"They come with me." She reaches out to grip Azelma's hand, Gavroche's arm. "That isn't negotiable."

"Of course." His gaze stays steady on hers, searching. She doesn't know what he's hoping to find. "When?"

She lets out a small laugh. "Now?" Before her parents can find them and stop it. Before she loses her nerve.

That makes Combeferre's brows climb high, his whole expression going startled. " _Tonight?_ "

"Why not?" She grips Azelma's hand tighter, and tells herself it's not because she's seeking courage from her baby sister. "We don't need anything but a priest and witnesses, and the witnesses we have."

"The priest, however, might be a challenge on such short notice."

"I'm not going home," she says, sharp and adamant.

"No," Combeferre says quietly. "No, I don't suppose that's a good idea, either." He glances at Azelma and Gavroche once more, and seems to consider something. After a moment, he speaks again. "I don't know that tonight will be possible. Stay the night with Grantaire, then, if you can't go home, and I'll ask around until I find someone who can perform the ceremony tomorrow."

She shuts her eyes and breathes carefully for a moment. The need to see them protected, _now_ , burns in her like a fire. But Combeferre's words are reasonable, and the calm steadiness of his voice helps soothe some of the franticness in her.

"I can ask him for you, if you'd prefer," Combeferre says after a moment of silence between them. She opens her eyes and sees that he's frowning at her a little, not like he's upset, just like he's uncertain.

"He's my friend," she says, and it's an effort not to snap the words out. "I can ask for my own favors."

He nods once, and doesn't seem to take offense at her tone. She rises and gestures for the children to stay behind while she makes her way across the room to where Grantaire is sitting with his friends, laughing hard over something someone said or a joke someone made. He smiles when he sees her, and kicks out an empty chair in invitation.

She sinks down onto it, but can't manage to sit comfortably. Still, he looks genuinely pleased to see her. "Last time you were here, you scarcely even said hello. I'm honored to have merited a visit, tonight."

She relaxes a little at the easy teasing of his tone. "If it's a visit you want, I can oblige you."

He lifts his eyebrows and drinks from his bottle of wine. "You sound as though you have something in mind."

He keeps his tone light, but there's a lift to his brow, and she knows the question hidden behind his words is genuine, so she stops teasing and looks down at the table a moment, keeps looking at it as she says, "We need to stay with you tonight," so none of them can see how desperately true that is.

He's only quiet for a single beat, and then he's all loud, happy exuberance once more. "Well! A visit, indeed. In triplicate, no less. Of course you'll come and stay, it's been far too long since we had a proper conversation. Perhaps I'll even coax you to stay for two!"

She smiles at him. It's a little too soft and a little too sad, but she can't help it. "I expect I'll be otherwise engaged tomorrow night."

"Then we shall have to make the most of tonight." He rises, leaves his bottle on the table and pulls her to her feet so he can sling his arm around her shoulders. He turns them both about to address the friends left behind at the table. " _Mes amis_ , you shall have to excuse me. My very dearest friend is in need of company, and I must oblige her."

The others at the table wave him off with smiles and good cheer, and they make their way together back to the table where Azelma and Gavroche are waiting. "Come along," she says, and that's all it takes, both of them on their feet and hurrying along with her, despite the questioning glances Azelma throws her and the heavy sighs of protest from Gavroche.

Grantaire keeps his arm slung about her shoulders as they make their way along the streets toward his home, and keeps his chatter bright. It makes her smile, if not quite as bright as usual, and she leans in against his side and lets him lead her while the children run ahead, only to allow themselves to be drawn back when they venture too far.

They've nearly reached Grantaire's and the children are ahead of them once more when Grantaire tightens his arm around Éponine's shoulder, a little hug, and asks in a quiet, solemn undertone, "Will you tell me, eventually?"

She takes a careful breath and keeps her head up, keeps her eyes on Azelma and Gavroche. "When they're sleeping."

He nods once, only that, and then calls ahead to the children when they've scampered right past his building.

"Thank you," she says to him, quiet, as they all make their way up the stairs. And it's for letting them stay the night, a little, but mostly it's for not pressing, and allowing her to find her way to it in her own time.

"Any time at all," he answers her back, just as low. "You need only to ask." Then he lifts his voice and calls ahead to the children, something that makes Azelma laugh and Gavroche roll his eyes despite the reluctant grin pulling at the corners of his mouth, and for a moment things feel almost normal.

*

When Azelma and Gavroche are both sleeping, tucked into Grantaire's bed together, Éponine folds herself into Grantaire's chair, her knees to her chest, and knows the time has come where she must think of a way to explain this to him. There's no more putting it off now, and he's her best friend. He deserves the truth. And if she doesn't tell him, he'll hear it soon enough from someone else, and he'll be hurt that she didn't confide in him. But that doesn't make the telling any easier.

He comes and sits on the floor in front of her chair, leaning in against her. She drops a hand down to brush her fingers through his hair and it makes it easier, somehow.

She begins speaking quietly, and not looking at him. She says, "Azelma spelled a mirror the other day." Grantaire goes still beneath her hand, but doesn't speak to interrupt her. "I tried to hide it, but Maman and Papa found out anyway. They'll force her into it, like they did me. They'll trap her in the underworld before she even knows there's something else out there for her."

"You're not going to let that happen," Grantaire says, and it's not a question.

She pushes her fingers deep into his hair. "No. I'm not."

"What are you going to do?"

She's quiet a moment, trying to think of how to tell him. When she's taken too long, he rolls up onto his knees and turns to face her, frowning.

"Éponine? What is it? What's that look for?"

"There's one claim that can supersede a parent's on a daughter," she says. "A husband's."

Grantaire is quiet for a long, long moment. "Éponine," he says at last, very quietly. "Are you asking me to marry you?"

It startles a laugh out of her. "No. God, no. I love you, but I don't think I could bear to be your wife. Besides," she says softly. "You love another."

It quiets Grantaire for a moment, but only that, and then he leans in and hooks his hand around her wrist and says, "What, then?"

"Combeferre." She says it very quietly, but still feels the way he startles beneath her hand, a slight jolt. "He-- he offered."

"You're..." He trails off into a considering silence, his gaze on her face, watching her like he's waiting for something. "Is this what you want?"

"I want to be free of my parents. I want to keep them from ever doing to Gavroche or Azelma what they've done to me. This is a means to what I want."

It's not the same thing and she knows it, and he does too. But almost anything would be better than watching her parents take Azelma's curiosity and joyful creation, and turn it into a cynical, calculated ploy to scam as much money as possible from the unsuspecting.

After a long moment, Grantaire nods once, and Éponine can breathe again. "When?"

"As soon as possible. I'd hoped for tonight, but he doesn't think there will be any priests willing to perform the ceremony at this hour. He's looking for someone who will do it tomorrow."

"Do you need a witness?"

It makes her heart clench, one hard, painful beat, and makes her eyes burn with the threat of tears. "I have the children," she says softly, scarcely a whisper. "But if you would be there, if you would want to--"

"Of course I'd want to!"

She throws her arms around his neck and hugs him fiercely, pressing her face to his shoulder to hide the fact that she's lost the war against the tears. "Then yes," she says, her voice thick and choked. "Yes, please. I'd like to have you there. You could give me away?" It's a father's right, but Papa never would, and she wouldn't let him even if he wanted to. But Grantaire...

Grantaire is shaking his head almost before she's done speaking. "No. You're giving yourself to him, and I think that's as it should be. Besides," he adds, pulling back from her embrace enough to give her a warm smile. "If you think I'm going to give up my very best friend just because she's to be a married woman, then you're a greater fool than I thought you were." He grabs at Éponine's hands and squeezes them tight. "I'm not giving you up. Combeferre is just going to have to learn to share you."

It's a ridiculous thought, when the man is only marrying her for her protection, but it makes laughter bubble up in her all the same, which she suspects was Grantaire's intent. "Good," she says, and leans in to hug him again, a little less desperately this time.

*

She sleeps in Grantaire's bed, squeezed in with the children because if she'd taken the chair it would have left Grantaire nowhere to sleep but the floor. It's not the first time they've all shared a bed together, and it's nice to have her arms wrapped around them both, their warmth a steady reassurance that they're here and they're safe.

In the morning, the children are much better rested than she or Grantaire. She scrubs the sleep from her eyes while Grantaire sets himself to making a meal that will feed them all. Soon enough, the rooms are filled with the smell of cooking things and the shrieks of Gavroche and Azelma as they chase each other. It's nice, and it makes Éponine smile and almost forget the nerves that are settling into her stomach.

It's ridiculous to feel nervous. She wants this. She chose it for herself. But the nerves are there all the same, fluttering like moths caught in a jar. She breathes carefully and smiles whenever Azelma or Gavroche or Grantaire catch her eye, and when there's a quiet knock at the door she jumps to her feet so swiftly that Grantaire gives her a long, worried look before he moves to answer it.

It's Combeferre on the other side, of course. She doesn't think either of them expected anyone else. He gives Grantaire a nod and a quiet greeting, and steps inside at his invitation. His gaze goes to Éponine, and she doesn't breathe until he says, "I found a priest who will perform the ceremony this morning. Mass will be starting soon, though, so we ought to be on our way."

He's dressed nice. She doesn't know him well enough to know if he always takes this much care or if he made a special effort for the occasion, but it's enough to make her aware of the fact that she's wearing yesterday's dress.

_You have greater concerns than vanity,_ she scolds herself, and holds Combeferre's eye as she nods and says, "I'm ready. Grantaire's coming with us, if you don't mind."

Combeferre and Grantaire share a glance, and some sort of brief, silent exchange, and then Combeferre smiles at her. "Of course not. Grantaire, you're ready as well? And the children?"

It's the work of a moment to get them bundled up and ready to go. Gavroche grumbles at first but Azelma silences him with a sharp word, a rare feat. He keeps his shoulders hunched and his hands shoved deep in his pockets as they make their way out into Paris, through the quiet hum of the waking streets to the church, standing tall and half-shadowed by the rising sun.

Inside, it seems vast and empty. Their footsteps echo off the walls and the vaulted ceilings, thrown and distorted until she can't tell whose steps are whose.

There are a few candles lit through the chapel, their flames dancing merrily, and the priest waiting for them before the altar, and otherwise the church is empty. There's no one here to question the haste of their union, or the secrecy, or to carry word of it back to Maman and Papa before she's ready for them to know of it.

"Éponine." Azelma whispers her name, pulling at her hand until Éponine bends down closer to her. "Why are we here?"

Éponine squeezes her sister's hand tight. "I'm marrying Combeferre."

Azelma takes a half a step back and frowns up at her. "Why?"

She's not likely to accept any version of the truth, not that Éponine's doing it to be free of Maman and Papa, and certainly not that she's doing it to protect Azelma. And Éponine won't lie and claim it's a love match. Neither of her siblings are foolish enough to believe that, in any case. She says, "Because I want to," because it's the only true answer that Azelma won't dispute.

Azelma looks up at Éponine, impossibly solemn. "Are you going to leave us?"

"No. Sweetheart, no. Never." She pulls Azelma in and kisses her brow and squeezes her tight. "I want you to come with me."

"Really?"

Éponine nods and holds her close. "Of course. Would you like that?"

Azelma pulls back, slipping out of her arms and stands a step away, looking Éponine over from beneath a wrinkled brow. "You're getting married like _that?_ " she cries, dismayed. "You haven't a pretty dress or flowers or anything."

"I think her dress is pretty," Combeferre says, smiling quietly from where he's standing to one side, letting them have their conversation.

Éponine gives him a brief glance, then turns her attention back to Azelma. "And I don't need flowers," she says. "I just need you two here with me."

Azelma huffs and gives them a look like they're both idiots and they deserve one another. "What's the point of getting married if you don't get a fancy dress or flowers?" she demands, but it's a grudging protest and she doesn't seem to be looking for a response. Which is just as well, because Éponine couldn't hope to explain, not without giving away her true reasons for it.

"We can buy some flowers on the way home, if you like," Combeferre says to Azelma. "You can help us pick out ones you like."

Éponine looks up at him, startled and blinking. Flowers are costly here in the city, where you can't just step outside and pick them from a meadow. She can't remember the last time she had enough coin in her pocket to consider sparing some for something as indulgent as pretty flowers, even for the worthy goal of making her sister smile.

Azelma, though, seems cheered by the prospect, and the priest is still waiting on them, so Éponine doesn't comment on the expense, just smiles and kisses Azelma's head again, then pulls Gavroche close for a quick embrace as well, despite the way it makes him squirm and protest. And then she straightens, and pulls them both in close by her sides, and faces Combeferre. "I'm ready," she says. "I'm sorry to have kept you waiting."

"You don't need to apologize," he says easily, and moves so that they're standing together, facing each other squarely. "Father?" he says to the priest. "We're ready when you are."

The priest comes to stand before them, and Grantaire keeps close by her shoulder as he begins the ceremony. It's a comfort to have them all here, the three people she loves best in the world, standing with her while she faces the vast unknown.

She is certain that marriage to Combeferre won't be worse than life with her parents has been. But she still doesn't know what it _will_ be, and the prospect of jumping into it, and at such a rush, fills her stomach with nerves. But the priest's words are low and steady as he speaks the ceremony, and Azelma's hand is warm in hers. Grantaire is behind her where she can't see him, but she can feel him too, and Combeferre stands before her, at ease as he listens to the priest. She breathes, slow and deliberate, until her pulse steadies and her nerves settle, and she knows that she can do this. For Azelma, for Gavroche, she can and has faced so much worse.

The priest instructs Combeferre to speak his vows first. Combeferre holds her gaze as he voices each promise, to be a faithful friend and companion, to honor and cherish, and to support her in all things. There's an earnestness to his words, and in his eyes, that removes any doubt she might have had about his sincerity. The vow to love her means little when this isn't a love match and that's not what she wants from their union. But the rest of it carries weight, and it lodges in her chest until she can scarcely breathe past it.

As he finishes his vows, Combeferre takes a ring from his pocket and slips it onto Éponine's finger. It's a simple band, neither ornate nor ostentatious, which is just as it should be, and it's warm from being kept so close to him. Éponine rubs her thumb over it, back and forth across the smooth, polished surface, until the priest addresses her and instructs her to repeat after him.

She makes the same vows Combeferre did, to love and honor and support. Her voice breaks halfway through and it's just because of the weight growing heavier on her chest with each word. It's because a full day earlier, she hadn't had anyone willing to stand at her side and swear his support. Now she has a husband, or will if she can find her voice, and the fact that he's a stranger only makes it all the more stunning that he's willing to do this for her.

She finishes her vows, and she meets Combeferre's eyes all the way through it, as he did hers. She owes him at least that much. And when she's finished, Combeferre takes another ring from his pocket and presses it into her hand, the twin of her plain gold band, though thicker and broader, to fit his larger finger.

She takes his hand in hers and clasps it to hide the unsteadiness of her hand as she slides the ring down his finger, to settle against the knuckle. The feel of his skin against hers, warm and just a little rough, sends a shock through her. They've scarcely touched, and not like this, not so intimate as holding one another's hands as they stand close and look into one another's eyes and speak vows that mean something, even if the foundation they're built on is something other than love.

The priest pronounces them wed, and brings forth the register for them both to sign, along with their witnesses, to make it official. And then he excuses himself to prepare for the morning mass, and Éponine is still standing with Combeferre's hand in hers and she can't think of what to say, or what to do.

Azelma takes a step away from Éponine and tips her head to one side as she peers up at Combeferre. "Aren't you going to kiss her now?" she asks.

Éponine loses all the air from her lungs in an instant. "Azelma," she says, chiding, but Combeferre smiles at her like he doesn't mind the questioning. He crouches down to Azelma's level and pulls at one of her curls, making her giggle and duck her head.

"Not unless she wants me to," he says quietly to Azelma, and bless him, he doesn't look at Éponine, doesn't make it a question, doesn't put the weight of that expectation upon her.

She doesn't say anything. It's a husband's right, and more than that, it's tradition, but she's not that sort of wife, and it's not that sort of marriage.

"Éponine." Azelma frowns at her. "Don't you want to kiss him?"

She can't answer that honestly, not without raising more questions that she doesn't care to answer. So she only pulls Azelma close and ruffles her hair, and says to her, "Come. Let's go home. Aren't you ready to be done here?"

" _I_ am," Gavroche says, petulant. "Can we really go?"

"Yes." Éponine pulls him close, too, and he permits it, despite the protesting noises he makes for show. "The priest will need to prepare for mass, and we have taken enough of his time."

Combeferre thanks the priest for his time and his service while Éponine ushers the children outside. He joins them a moment later and Éponine accidentally catches his eye, and must give him an awkward smile. He returns it, warm, without awkwardness, and they walk together toward a part of the city Éponine is not accustomed to visiting, towards Combeferre's home, which is now hers as much as it is his.

She twists the ring around her finger as they walk, twists it around and around and around, until she thinks it's finally worn away a place to sit, close against her knuckle. Maybe, she thinks, eventually she will stop being made aware of its new weight every time she flexes her fingers or moves her hand. Maybe Combeferre will make a place for himself in her life the way the ring has upon her finger, and it will stop being so new and strange and unsettling.

Maybe.

*

Combeferre's not rich, Éponine knew that already, from the way he dresses, from the company he keeps, from the fact that he's a member of a group advocating for progress and change. But his home is nicer than hers, nicer than she was expecting. It's in good repair, anyway, and the furnishings are nice. Not the sort that have seen twenty years and three children, and suffered for all of it.

He says, "I'll show you around," as soon as she and the children have come inside and shed their coats. There's the parlor out front, furnished simply, and a small kitchen. There's a door with a lock on it, even though it's inside the house, and Éponine frowns at it and wonders why he'd need to lock a room up inside his own home, where until today, he lived alone.

"My workshop," he says when he sees her attention on it. "The locks are just a precaution. There's sensitive equipment in there, and delicate experiments that could be ruined if the right care wasn't taken. Easier this way, than to have to warn off anyone who visits."

She nods like she understands, but as he leads them on, her thoughts are caught on it, wondering what sort of a man leaves his valuables out for any half-competent thief to take for their own, but secures experiments behind a sturdy lock.

There's a cluttered room that seems to be used mostly for storage, lined with shelves that hold all sorts of bottles and containers. Combeferre looks chagrined when he shows them that one. "I wasn't expecting to have housemates quite so suddenly. We'll set this up for the children, but it may take a few days to get it fully furnished."

"We get to sleep in _here?_ " Gavroche says, his eyes bright and his face alight as he gazes up at the shelves, and Éponine knows that if they left him alone in there for a minute he'd get himself into some sort of horrible mischief trying to explore them all.

She clears her throat, says, "Not yet. It's not a bedroom yet, after all." With a brief glance at Combeferre, she adds, "I'm sure we'll be able to set up something temporary for you both, until we have all this clutter cleared out of here."

She doesn't mean it to be dismissive or insulting, only realizes after the words are out of her mouth how Combeferre might take it, when all she wants is to dissuade Gavroche from sticking his nose into places where it'll get him into trouble. But Combeferre doesn't seem disturbed, just inclines his head in a slight, acknowledging nod and ushers the children out of the room with a hand upon their backs.

Gavroche leaves the room, but digs his heels in when Combeferre tries to show them down the hall, back the way they came. He looks at Éponine, belligerent. "But what about where _you're_ sleeping?"

"That's none of your business," she tells him easily.

Gavroche is easily distracted by other things, hoping from one conversational topic to the next like a magpie investigating shiny trinkets. But Azelma stops Éponine with a small hand tucked into her arm, and looks up at her with very large eyes and a very solemn gaze. "Éponine," she says in an undertone, with a covert glance toward where Combeferre is bent over in conversation with Gavroche, like she's telling a secret. "He's going to take care of you, isn't he?"

And Éponine could cry right there, she really could. What sort of child needs to fret about whether her elder sister is going to be taken care of right by the man she's wed?

A Thénardier child, that's who. But that's why Éponine is here in the first place, isn't it? So Azelma won't have to grow up quite so fast as she did. So she can remember what it's like to be a child, instead of simply a source of income for their parents.

Azelma's asking about the sleeping arrangements, Éponine knows she is. But even so, Éponine hooks an arm around her shoulders and pulls her in against her side, kisses the crown of her head and says against her hair, "He's going to take care of all of us," in a voice that's just a little bit choked.

*

It's easy to say to Azelma, with a smile and a hug for reassurance. It's easy to believe it, when Combeferre's crouched over in earnest conversation with the children, like he actually cares.

It's hard to have any faith whatsoever later, when they've spent the day clearing the room for the children out and turning it from an oversized supply closet to a proper bedroom, and the day has worn its way through to night and the children have both been tucked into their new beds. Now it's dark and it's quiet and there's no one else around for Éponine to distract herself with. There's no one left to give her attention to, to hide how awkward it is whenever it falls upon Combeferre.

They trimmed the lamps in the rest of the house, to encourage the children to bed, but now it means the only source of light is coming from the bedroom, from _Combeferre's_ bedroom, and its light spills out into the hall like a beacon, calling her to it. And she walks forward with slow, reluctant steps, like a moth drawn to a flame that it knows will burn it to ash.

She stops just inside the doorway. The room is modest, the bed narrow. She's slept in smaller -- has shared smaller, even, but it was always with Gavroche or Azelma, with someone she doesn't mind wrapping in her arms and holding close. The thought that she's meant to share it now with Combeferre, with a _stranger_ , makes her chest feel tight.

She turns so that her back is to him for a moment, so she can shut her eyes and try to catch her breath. Carefully, she reaches out to swing the door shut, because there seems little else to be done. There's nothing out there in the dark of the house that can save her from this moment.

And then she stands, with her back to Combeferre and her hands cupped over her elbows, and doesn't know at all what to do.

"Éponine," Combeferre says from the other side of the room, quiet, gentling.

She takes a deep, ragged breath and spins on a heel to face him. "I won't be your mistress," she snaps.

Combeferre just blinks at her for a moment in the flickering light from the lamp. "You're my wife," he says, and the words are weighted, like they carry meaning.

"You know what I mean."

His lips part, then press together without making a sound. "I honestly don't."

"I won't be bought. I appreciate what you've done for me -- for all of us -- but if you expect your generosity to be repaid--"

He moves toward her and she slides back instinctively, her back pressed to the bedroom door. He brings himself up short after only one aborted step in her direction, looking alarmed for a moment and then, at a loss. "Éponine," he says again. "What I did for you was done because I wanted to help, only that. There's no price on it. I don't expect anything from you."

She makes a face. He can't be that kind, that generous. No one ever is. "I'm your wife," she says.

"Yes."

"And yet you hold no expectation that I perform a wife's duties?"

" _No._ Éponine, I--" He reaches toward her and she flinches back, even though there's still half the width of the room between them. He stops and lowers his hand to his side and looks at her, and he looks so sad. "I meant what I said this morning. I want nothing from you that isn't freely given. _Nothing._ "

She eyes him sidelong, then edges toward him a single step, testing the waters. Testing the limits of her bravery, and of his honesty. "You don't want me, then?"

Combeferre sighs and sinks down onto the trunk at the foot of the bed. He lifts a hand to rub it over his brow. "No," he says, like she's burdened him with the weight of the world just by asking the question. "Because you don't want me. And I take no pleasure in a woman's fear."

The accusation of fear makes her spine stiffen and her fingers curl against her palms. She doesn't deny it, though, because it's true. And what would be the point of protesting when she's standing as she is, with her back against the door and her breath coming thin and fast?

"Éponine," he says again, lowering his hand and looking at her, but making no move toward her. "Would it ease your mind if I slept elsewhere?"

She barks out a laugh before she can help herself, then presses her fingers to her mouth to keep the rest of it back. "You wouldn't," she says against her fingertips.

"I would, if it would ease your mind."

"Where would you sleep? With the children?" Another laugh rises up in her, but she presses her fingers against her lips and seals it back. Nothing about this feels funny. It feels like madness.

"No. There's a cot in my workshop." He rises to his feet but doesn't approach her, hangs back like there's a wall between them he doesn't know how to scale. "I don't mind. I've slept there before."

She narrows her eyes at him. "For how long?"

And he sighs like she's failed some sort of test, just by asking the question. "As long as you want me to."

"You can't mean that!" She pushes away from the wall, then, compelled by the sudden heat of anger burning up within her chest. "You buy me supper, you _wed_ me, you welcome my brother and sister into your home, and now-- now you'll give your bed up to me, too? How can you expect me to believe it? No one is that kind!"

He makes a face that she can't begin to interpret, like he's overwhelmed or maybe upset. "It's not kindness. It's just... It's the right thing to do." He comes toward her with slow, careful movements, like he's approaching a wild animal and trying not to spook it. Every step makes her shoulders pull tight and her breath come sharp and frantic.

"I'll sleep in my workshop," he says, not a question this time but a firm statement of fact. "And I'll do so until you tell me otherwise. I don't want anything from you, Éponine, and I certainly don't want to force my way into someplace you don't want me. Not your bed, and not your life--"

She gives a wild laugh and shakes her head desperately. "We're _married_. I spoke those words same as you, binding our lives together."

"You did," he agrees solemnly. "But perhaps you'll change your mind. Perhaps you'll decide you don't like me so well as you thought you might. Perhaps you'll find another way to be free of your parents, without making yourself beholden to someone else in their stead." She would speak, but he holds up a hand to forestall her. "The point is, annulment is always an option. And it's an option I don't wish to take from you. You came here, you married me, because you thought it was the best option for you and your family. If you decide there is another option that suits you better, I don't want you to feel the way is barred."

Something in her gut twists tight and she fights a sudden, sickening wave of nausea when she realizes the import of what he's saying. "You don't... You don't think you'll want to stay married to me? You're giving yourself an out, same as me." And if he tires of her and casts them all out, what then? They'll be on the street, with nowhere to go but back home. She can't let that happen. She _won't_. No husband can be worse than laying Azelma's future back in the hands of those who have no care for it.

"Éponine," Combeferre says once more, quiet and patient. She twitches when he uses her name, uses it _again_. It's like a little chisel chipping away at her, and she's sure that's how he intends it. Something to win past her defenses and earn her trust, or at least to dissuade her fears. "Whatever this marriage is, or becomes, it will be because you wish it to be so. I won't cast you out, anymore than I'll force you to stay if you wish to go."

_No one is that kind,_ she thinks again, desperately. There's a catch, there has to be. There always is. He'll be cruel, or he'll be unkind to the children, or he'll tire of his celibacy and pressure her to be a wife to him in more than just name.

Well, she thinks, and squares her shoulders. That's the answer, then, isn't it? There's always a catch, and there always will be. But for now, she doesn't think Combeferre has it in him to rival her parents, even at his worst. She'll stay, for as long as that remains true.

And if it changes? Well. Then she'll leave, and take Azelma and Gavroche with her, and oaths be damned. And let him just _try_ and stop her.

"The cot, then," she says, and tries to sound dignified and strong, and not as overwhelmed as she is at the thought of spending the night alone in a stranger's bed. In her husband's bed.

Combeferre doesn't protest, just inclines his head in a brief nod of acknowledgment. "Good night, Éponine. If you need anything at all, my workshop is just down the hall. Please don't hesitate to wake me."

"Of course," she says, forcing the words past the thickness in her throat, because _no one is that kind._ He'll be sleeping poorly enough as it is, on some narrow cot instead of in his own bed. She'll not wake him for anything less than the house burning down, no matter what he might make her promise otherwise. "Good night, Combeferre."

He smiles abruptly, as though startled and pleased to hear his name come from her lips. But then he leaves, and the room feels small and cold and strange without him there. She looks around it briefly, feeling dizzy and disoriented by the rush of the day's events, then blows the lamp out to throw the room into darkness.

It feels no less unfamiliar in the dark than it did in the light. When she tells herself she's being ridiculous and pulls back the blankets to slide underneath them, it feels even more so. It's a perfectly serviceable mattress, but her body's unaccustomed to the give of it, to the way she doesn't have to curve herself around the lumpier places. The pillow's newer than hers, softer and less worn, and it smells of a stranger's soap.

It is only because it's been a long day, a string of long days, that she falls asleep at all.

*

Éponine wakes into a bleary fog, her thoughts sluggish as she presses the heels of her hands to her eyes and rubs the grit out of them. For a moment, panic grips her like a fist around her heart, the sudden fear that she's overslept and Mama and Papa will be furious with her for shirking her duties to the family.

There's the muffled sounds of laughter from beyond the bedroom, though, and it's a rare enough sound to jolt her back to her senses. Memory returns in a rush that's half relief and half trepidation.

She's glad, of course. She's glad to be here, glad Combeferre was kind enough to help them, even if she doesn't comprehend it. She's glad for Azelma's sake and Gavroche's that they'll be able to know what it is to live without being exploited for greed and for gain. But for herself... terrible as her parents may be, at least she knows what to expect from them. There's a sort of steadiness in that.

Combeferre, though... She can't make sense of him, and that unpredictability is a constant hum in the back of her mind, a lurking sense of panic.

She rises and dresses hurriedly, compelled by the distant siren-song of laughter, and comes out of the bedroom and down the hall to find Azelma and Gavroche play-fighting in Combeferre's parlor, grappling with each other and tumbling as they battle for the upper hand, and all the while giggling and laughing in a way that Éponine hasn't heard from either of them in longer than she can remember.

"Gavroche! Azelma!" She snaps their names at them, but keeps her voice hushed, cautious. She wants to stop them wrestling before the ruckus rouses Combeferre, not wake him herself and bring him out to discover the sort of behavior her siblings thing is appropriate in a stranger's home. "This is no way to behave--"

Laughter behind her makes her stiffen, then spin on her heel. Combeferre is roused already, it seems, is already out here in the parlor and has been for who-knows-how-long. And, to Éponine's shock and consternation, he's _laughing_. Laughing like their antics amuse him, and not as though he's concerned in the least that they might rough-house right into lamp or some other easily-damaged piece of furniture. "Oh, let them have their fun," he says, and he's grinning at her, his face broad and open and bright. "They're not hurting anything."

"Not yet."

Combeferre lifts one shoulder and waves a hand easily. "There's nothing much here that I couldn't bear to lose. Now, if we were in my workshop, that'd be a different story. But out here? Chairs and rugs are easily replaced." He's quiet for a beat, then adds, softer, with quiet weight behind it, "It's nice to see them happy."

Something sharp twists just beneath her breastbone, stealing the breath from her lungs. It's one thing for her to notice the gravitas that's taken over her brother and sister, when she's known them all their lives and can recognize the change. It's something else when it's a stranger who's known them all of a day. It means more. It makes her heart ache.

If he were wrong, she'd tell him so. But he's not. It _is_ nice to see them happy, nicer even than she thinks he knows. And Azelma would listen to her if Éponine told her to stop, but she'd be disappointed. Gavroche likely wouldn't stop until Azelma did, and left him without a playmate, and then he'd sulk. She can't bear the thought of taking this newfound happiness from them, so she frowns at Combeferre but doesn't say another word to halt their playing.

"There's tea," he says to her, hope and caution in his voice, like he's offering her an olive branch but unsure how she'll take the gesture. "It should still be hot."

It's a chilly morning, and there's a small, animal part of her that yearns to crawl back into the warmth of the bed and burrow under the covers until she's made herself a warm little nest. So she only wavers a moment, torn between the gooseflesh prickling across her arms and her reluctance to take advantage of Combeferre's hospitality, before she relents with a long sigh, and nods and says, "That sounds wonderful, thank you."

He gestures over his shoulder, towards the kitchen. "I'll keep an eye on these two, make sure they don't kill each other."

She'd bridle at the implication, but his voice is so warm as he says it. He's still smiling, his face open with enjoyment as he watches them play, like they're his siblings not hers, like watching them tumble about fills him with the same sort of fondness it does her -- or would, if she weren't so horrified that they were behaving this way in someone else's home.

She doesn't know what she might say about it, though. There's nothing to say that wouldn't sound ridiculous, so she just shakes her head hard to banish the thought and finds her way to the kitchen, where there's a plain but serviceable brown-glazed teapot steaming happily on the table.

The kitchen's warmer than the rest of the flat, too, because of the fire Combeferre lit to boil the water for the tea. With the chill thawing from her skin and a warm cup of mostly-fresh tea cradled in her hands, and the sounds of children playing still coming from the other room, the morning seems almost pleasant.

She drinks her tea in the quiet and solitude of the kitchen, letting its warmth seep through her to the sounds of Azelma and Gavroche enjoying themselves. When there's nothing but a few wayward tea leaves floating in the dregs at the bottom of her cup, she pours herself a second and drinks it faster, for fortification and because it's the end of the pot, and will go cold and bitter if it's left, and then it will just be wasted.

She empties the leaves out of the pot when she's finished, rinses it out and sets the pot aside in a safe place to dry, then stands there looking down at the scattering of dishes in Combeferre's sink. She already has the pump running and her hands wet, after all -- there seems no good reason _not_ to finish up the washing, while she's in there. She pushes her sleeves up to her elbows, pumps more water into the sink, and begins the task of rinsing and scrubbing the dishes.

There aren't a great number of them -- a cup with a few tea leaves in it, most likely from this morning before she woke, some plates that she recognizes from the night before, that Azelma and Gavroche ate their supper from. She makes quick work of it, and is just wiping her hands dry on a towel when there's a sound behind her, like footsteps and then a soft, punched-out sort of noise.

She turns, the towel still in hand. Combeferre is there, the start of a smile frozen on his face like he forgot he was in the process of forming one. His eyes are on her and they're puzzled beneath the furrow of his brow. "We were wondering where you'd disappeared to," he says, distantly, like he can't quite recall the importance of the statement any longer. He comes two steps closer, into the kitchen. "You washed my dishes? You didn't have to do that, they could have waited."

He comes closer, reaches a hand out and takes her by the elbow. She startles at the contact between them, even though his touch is gentle, his fingers light on her bared skin. "Come out of here, come enjoy the morning with us. It's been a lovely one, so far, and there are better ways to spend it than doing the scrubbing."

"It was no trouble," she insists, and resists a moment before she lets herself be led. "And it needed to be done."

"I could have done it. I would have, later, when I had the time."

She huffs out a breath and rolls her eyes toward the ceiling. "Will it make you feel better if I promise to let you wash the dishes after breakfast?"

He considers it for a moment, like he thinks it's a question that's actually worth deliberation, and not mere sarcasm. She honestly doesn't know what to do with him. "Yes," he says eventually. "I think so."

"Wonderful." She spins on her heel and moves across the kitchen. "Then if you'll just point me to your icebox, I'll see what I can put together for us. I wouldn't want to keep you suffering the indignity of your wife doing household chores for any longer than necessary, after all."

She can feel Combeferre's attention on her but he doesn't say anything. When she gets annoyed enough to turn and look at him, he looks like she's taken him by surprise in the worst sort of way. "You don't have to do that," he tells her, his voice choked.

She braces her fists on her hips, arms akimbo. _Honestly_ , he's worse than the children. Worse even than Gavroche, she thinks, and she hadn't thought that was even possible. "What?" she snaps. "Cook?"

His mouth works in silence briefly. "Yes."

"So I'm not allowed to clean, now I'm not allowed to cook. Is there anything I _am_ allowed to do, or do you mean to just keep me sitting about looking pretty like a nice mantel piece?"

" _Éponine._ " Now he looks pained. "That's not what I mean at all, and I think you're clever enough that you must know it. I must be the city's greatest dunce, though, because I can't for the life of me figure out why you're mad."

"Oh, can't you?" She starts grabbing heavy copper pans down from where he's hung them on a rack against the wall. "I'm _hungry_. And you would have me let you cook your own meals, but you can't fathom why I might be upset at being forbidden from doing so myself? I'm not going to sit about waiting for you to do everything on my behalf like some sort of helpless infant, I'm just not. If that's what you expect from me, then you may as well petition for annulment now. Tell the courts I'm frigid, or barren, or whatever lie you like, but don't-- _Don't._ "

He's come up behind her while she's moving around the kitchen, throwing open cupboards in search of the larder, and the light touch of his fingers against her elbow makes her startle upright and spin about to face him. Her heart is thudding against her sternum all at once, her blood pumping with an animal urge to run, or to attack.

He jerks his hands away as though she's burned him. "I-- I'm sorry. I only meant to-- I'm sorry." He takes a deep breath and lets it out all at once. "Will you let me help? I'm good with a knife."

She'd rather chase him out of the kitchen and have the luxury of half an hour to herself, with only her own thoughts for company. But if she refuses him, she thinks he'll only try to find some other way to take care of her down the road, and she'll find some other way to encourage him to keep his distance, and they'll never see the end of it. So she lifts one shoulder in a shrug and says, "Suit yourself. You can start by pointing me to the larder."

He gives her a brief tour of the kitchen instead, showing her where she can find not only the larder and the ice box, but also where he keeps knives and utensils, where his small, precious stores of herbs and spices can be found, and how there's a trick to lighting the stove so that the fire will build, instead of dying down to a smoldering ember.

He has eggs, and he promises they're fresh, purchased only two days earlier from a neighbor whose daughter lives in the country and raises chickens, so she drags a big bowl up onto the counter, cracks enough eggs into it for all four of them, and then throws in any of the vegetables he has on hand that look like they'll go off soon if they're not used up.

They get a very respectable scramble out of it, in the end. The smell of it brings Gavroche into the kitchen without having to be summoned, giving the both of them as well as the pan steaming on the stove a suspicious look, like he thinks maybe they're trying to trick him somehow, with a plate full of warm breakfast. "Smells good," he says, and he's grudging about it.

Azelma, trailing in behind him, is more enthusiastic. She bounds over to Éponine and strains up onto her tip-toes to try to see into the pan on the stove. "Do we get to eat that?" she asks eagerly. "I'm _starving._ "

Éponine smiles and swats her back from the stove. "Not if you pull it all down onto the floor. Go get plates, why don't you, and set places for all of us at the table."

Azelma grumbles, and Éponine says only, "It'll keep your mind off your stomach," and then shoos her away. Combeferre moves off to help her, showing her where the plates and the cutlery are, but he gives Éponine a little smile before he goes and it seems almost conspiratorial, like they're sharing in some private joke. It's disconcerting when they're strangers, when the only thing they can truly be said to share is the vows they made the day before, but she doesn't want to snap at him for his presumption with Azelma and Gavroche present, so she settles instead for herding Gavroche to the table and getting him to sit without draping himself over the chair as though all his bones are made of rubber.

It's a strange sort of meal, nothing at all like the kind she's used to passing at home, where tension filled the table and Éponine spent every bite braced for a sharp reprimand for even the tiniest slight. Food eaten around their table always sat like a lump of lead in her belly, made her feel vaguely sick and uneasy until she could flee the table and escape it. But here at Combeferre's table, it's... It's loose, and messy, and Gavroche keeps spilling food across the table and picking it up with his fingers, and Azelma is very carefully picking every piece of vegetable out of the eggs and pushing it to the side of her plate, and Éponine keeps flinching and glancing sidelong at Combeferre, but he's just leaning his elbow on the table and his chin in his hand and watching them with a little shine to his eyes, like he's finding their poor manners horribly charming, and Éponine's breakfast is a warmth deep in her belly, like the banked coals of the stove, glowing warm and steady.

Afterwards, Combeferre gathers up everyone's dishes and carries them to the sink, and starts washing them before Éponine has the opportunity to do so herself. She follows him into the kitchen.

"In this household," he says without turning, and just as she's drawing breath to speak, "whoever cooks doesn't clean up. I'm willing to negotiate just about anything to ensure these arrangements work for both of us, but I'm afraid I'm going to have to be very firm on that one. Besides, I seem to recall a certain promise to let me clean up after breakfast."

Éponine scowls at his back but, really, there's no way she come up with a reasonable protest to that. She starts to speak, stops herself, then gusts out a sharp sigh and tries again. "I am letting you. But you helped me cook." She comes up to stand at his side and takes up a towel and one of the clean, wet dishes he's set to the side. "I'm helping you dry."

He glances sidelong at her, and there's a wry curl to his mouth that she thinks isn't exactly pleasure. He looks at her like that for long enough that she starts to frown back at him, but then he just gives a brisk nod and hands her the pan that he's just finished scrubbing, that's still dripping water onto the countertop between them.

She meets his gaze, then, and takes the pan from his hands like it's some sort of challenge. He doesn't back down, but he doesn't rise to it, either, just starts scrubbing the next dish like he hasn't even noticed, though she knows he has.

They work together like that in silence, nothing but the splash of the water and the sounds of dishes occasionally clattering against one another, and in what seems like no time at all, they have everything washed and dried, and Combeferre only has to help her a little bit to remember where to put the dried dishes away.

When that's done and there's nothing left but to dry their hands, they end up standing facing one another and Combeferre's looking at her with an expression she can't interpret. She clenches the towel awkwardly in her fists and casts about for something to say, anything, or any excuse to brush past him and leave this room, and this awkwardness with it--

"You're a quick study," Combeferre says, his voice filled with approval that makes her bristle even as it warms her. Maybe especially _because_ it warms her. "There are days _I_ can't even remember where half my dishes belong."

"It's not hard," she snaps, and does move past him then. "Everything's very logical in where it goes, it's easy when a setup makes sense like yours."

He makes a sound of surprise, though she doesn't know what she's done to earn it. "Thank you," he says, startled and sincere.

She hadn't meant to give him a compliment, but she supposes she had, even so. She hesitates mid-step, just for a moment, before she shakes it off and continues away from the kitchen and from him, to chase down the children and cajole them to get ready for the day ahead of them.

*

Azelma and Gavroche are both going to need clothing, and she's got enough money saved up that she thinks she can get a few changes for both of them, if she's shrewd with her negotiating. She's grateful for the excuse to get out of the house, if only for a few hours. Her mind has been in a whirl for a full day -- for longer, really, if she's being honest with herself, since Combeferre sat down with her at the Musain and quietly, sincerely offered his help -- but things feel more normal when it's just her and the children, the two of them scampering ahead up the street, their voices raised in shouts of delight or surprise or just simple happiness.

Gavroche twists about like a fish on a hook whenever she tries to get him to try on clothing to check the fit, pulling faces like he's suffering the cruelest torments. Halfway through the day he loses patience entirely and slips away between one blink and the next.

She's used to that from him, though. And it's why she made him go first to begin with. They already have what they need for him, and now she only needs a few dresses for Azelma. Gavroche will turn up again, when he gets hungry or bored or, very rarely, because his conscience has nagged at him and he doesn't want her to fret.

Azelma is quiet while Éponine looks through a merchant's selection of coats, and stands by obediently while Éponine holds some up to her to judge their fit. She decides, in the end, on a brown one that's a bit oversized. Its cuffs hang down past Azelma's knuckles and its hem hits her lower on her legs than it should, but that's precisely what Éponine's looking for. It means Azelma will have room to grow into it, and might actually be able to use it next winter, too, before Éponine has to buy her a new one.

"Do you like it?" she asks, as Azelma looks it over.

Azelma pulls a face, then says, diplomatically, "It's very warm."

She doesn't love it, but they both know that the only really important requirements in a coat is that it's warm and it fits. And that it's a good price, which this one is. If Éponine had the money for it, she'd get a nicer one, one that Azelma would actually _like_ to wear. But warm is more important than liked right now, so she takes it to the merchant to start negotiating, and leaves a few minutes later with Azelma bundled up in it, her cheeks pink with the coat's added warmth.

She hooks her arm through Éponine's as they walk to the next shop, and leans her cheek in against Éponine's arm, like she's giving it a hug. "Thank you," she says, and even though she's not fond of the coat's looks, she sounds perfectly sincere.

Éponine pulls her arm out of her grip so that she can wrap it around Azelma's shoulders and pull her in against her side for a proper embrace. She presses a kiss to the top of Azelma's head and promises herself that someday, someday when they can afford it, she's going to take Azelma on a shopping trip and only buy her pretty things that make her face light up with delight.

It's nearly supper time by the time they return home, so Éponine leaves Azelma to sort out a place for her new clothes while Éponine looks through Combeferre's icebox and the shelves of his pantry for something she can put together for them all to eat. Soon enough, she has a fire built in the stove and a pan sizzling atop it, and the smell of butter and onions and herbs is filling the kitchen. It can cook for a few more minutes before it needs her attention, so she goes out to see how Azelma is getting along with putting her new things away.

She's sitting on the floor of the room she shares now with Gavroche, most of her new clothes put away but her coat spread over her lap and her hands spread across the fabric, and the fabric that Éponine is very, very sure was a dull sort of brown in the market is now a bright, brilliant crimson.

Éponine's breath hisses out between her teeth on a rush as she crosses the room with quick strides and grabs the coat out from under her sister's hands. " _Azelma_ \--"

Azelma looks up at her, her brows twisting with the start of a frown. "It's nicer now," she says, protesting. "You'd have had to pay twice as much for a coat as nice as this, but you didn't have to, and now--"

"And now it's got your magic all over it." Woven into every strand of the fabric, fixed into the warp and weft as surely as any dye. Éponine can feel it beneath her fingers, the familiar thrum of her sister's talent. It feels like Azelma's smile, like the bright warmth of her laughter, and it makes Éponine's chest hurt to have to press her fingers into the nap of the fabric and alter the crimson shade. She pushes it just a touch closer to purple, because Azelma likes purple, and so hopefully she'll still like it, even though it's not the color she wanted. Not the color she chose.

But now it has Éponine's magic all over it, laid over Azelma's, obscuring it. Éponine's magic feels like a crackle of static, with the faintest pulse in time with the beat of her heart. It isn't as nice beneath her touch as Azelma's and the fabric now isn't the same clear, crimson shade that Azelma had made it, and Azelma's brilliant smile is gone now, lost beneath the rising tide of unhappiness.

And all of that hurts but none of it matters. What's important is that no one who passes Azelma in the street will recognize the touch of her magic on the coat. No one will carry word of it back to their parents. If anyone takes any heat because of it, it'll be Éponine and no one else. She doesn't have the luxury to care about anything else.

She's glad, though, quietly glad that Combeferre hadn't seen the coat before Azelma had worked her magic on it. Because there'd be no explaining that away, even if he's completely sense-blind to magic, even if he could lay his hands on it and feel nothing but the soft texture of its weave. He still had eyes, and it wouldn't be lost on him if Éponine brought in a brown coat and Azelma walked out in a red one.

Éponine drops down onto the edge of the bed and pulls Azelma into her arms. "You can't," she whispers, breathes it into the softness of Azelma's hair. "Sweetheart, you can't, you can't."

"It's not _fair_ ," Azelma says, muffled against Éponine's shirt, against her shoulder. "Why not, it's _nicer_ , why can't I make things _nicer_."

Éponine just holds her close and rocks with her, and weaves a charm into the coat that will make sure that Azelma feels the warmth of Éponine's love when she wraps herself in it, not just the warmth of the fabric.

*

The next morning, Azelma comes out to breakfast wearing one of her new dresses, and Combeferre smiles broadly at her as she slides into her chair at the table.

"Well, aren't you a sight," he says, and starts heaping food onto Azelma's plate before Éponine has a chance to. "I don't think I've seen that one before."

Azelma preens, her cheeks turning pink, and wiggles happily in her seat. "It's new!" she says. "Do you like it?"

"It's absolutely lovely. Did you pick it out yourself?"

She nods eagerly and starts telling him all about their shopping trip in between bites of her breakfast, and Éponine listens to her chatter on, ducking her head to hide the smile that she can't help. Combeferre's good with her, engaging her in conversation through the whole meal, keeping her talking and happy and he doesn't condescend to her, like adults sometimes do to children. Like her parents do to all of them.

Azelma's waving her hands about to make a point, her meal forgotten for the moment, and she's distracted by her enthusiasm but Éponine is watching Combeferre and she sees it, sees the way he grimaces, the way he presses his fingers briefly against his brow and leans his head into his hand.

Éponine's smile evaporates. Azelma hasn't noticed, and she seems happy enough, but Éponine won't stand for her being patronized. Better for Combeferre to discourage her conversation than to encourage it when he's uninterested. She's a child but she's not _stupid_ , she'll realize it soon enough and then she'll be hurt by the pretense, and Éponine won't stand for that.

Azelma's nearly finished with her breakfast anyway, so Éponine smiles and catches her by the hand mid-gesture and leans in to press a kiss to the side of her head. "Why don't you go get your coat and show him how pretty it is?"

The suggestion stops Azelma's chatter mid-sentence. Her eyes go bright with the notion, and then narrow with consideration. "It's warm in here for it," she says after a moment.

"But it'll be cold outside."

Azelma's whole face goes bright. "Are we going somewhere?"

"Of course. We can't waste an opportunity to show off your pretty new coat, now could we?"

Azelma runs off to her room to get it, and while she's gone, Éponine lets the pleasantness fall from her face and fixes a look on Combeferre. "She deserves better than that," she says.

Combeferre drops his hand from where he has his fingers rubbing circles against his temple. "I'm not sure what you mean."

"If you don't care, you shouldn't act like you do."

And Combeferre -- damn him, he blinks and stares at her like she's speaking in riddles. "I don't know why you'd think--"

She hisses out a breath. "You're sighing and making faces like you're bored out of your mind, and she deserves better than that. Do you think she won't notice?"

Combeferre opens his mouth, shuts it, then just blinks at her for another moment. "Forgive me," he says at last, and sounds like he's genuinely asking for it. Usually when people ask that of her, they're already assuming it'll be granted. "It's not boredom, I promise you. I've got a wretched headache this morning, I'm afraid. I swear to you that's all it is, but I'll try harder not to let it affect me. You're right, she does deserve better than to be tolerated, and I wouldn't want her to make the same assumption."

Éponine flinches a little bit, though Combeferre's voice doesn't sound like he means the last as an accusation. "Why?" she asks him abruptly. "I mean -- why do you have a headache?"

His smile is lopsided and not as bright as she's used to. "Who can say? If there's a reason for it, I've yet to determine it."

There's something to his voice, something she can't quite place, something she isn't even sure how she'd recognize, but she thinks abruptly, _He's lying_ , and then wonders at why on earth he would lie about something like that.

"You're going out again today?" he asks before she can figure out how to ask it of him.

She nods and prods at the remains of her breakfast on her plate. "We're in need of provisions. It seems someone's eaten all your food." She lets her lips curve, lets her voice warm, and gets an answering grin from Combeferre.

"I didn't expect my household to expand quite so rapidly, I confess. I was rather unprepared." He rises and leaves the room, though he hasn't yet finished his breakfast and even in the short time she's known him, Éponine's learned that he's not the sort to leave his plate abandoned on the table when he's finished with it. So she waits, and in a moment he returns with a handful of coins that he offers to her.

Éponine rears back from him at once. "I don't need that. We're the reason you need more food, we can pay for it ourselves, we don't need your--" She stops herself short of saying _charity_ , but only just, and finishes instead with, "--assistance."

She has a very little left after the shopping trip the day before, but she's fed them all on less before, when she's had to.

Combeferre just looks at her gently. "Take it," he says, and presses the coins into her hand. "For my portion."

She looks down at the sum lying on her palm and chokes on a laugh. "You expect me to spend all this on one person's share? You have expensive tastes, _monsieur_."

He doesn't like her calling him that, she can see that straight off, in the little flicker of an expression across his face and the shallow furrow that gathers between his brows. He doesn't tell her not to, though, just folds her fingers carefully around the coins. "Use as much of it as you like," he says. "Or as little. But take it, please, and use it."

She takes it, because he's looking at her entreatingly, like it's some sort of favor that she's doing him by taking his money off of his hands, and she has a long morning at the market ahead of her, and she doesn't have the strength or the will to fight over it. She might not care for his pity or his charity, but she's a product of her own upbringing, in the end, and it hurts something in her to turn down money that she's in need of. She's never been in the position where she had the luxury of prioritizing her pride over the more urgent necessities of food and clothing and shelter.

Azelma comes out bundled up in her red coat as Éponine tucks the coins away, and Combeferre exclaims over it appropriately. And Éponine's near enough to finished with breakfast that, once Azelma's finished showing the coat off, it takes little enough time to get her and Gavroche out the door and on their way to the market.

Gavroche complains about being subjected to shopping for the second day in a row, but changes his tune when they reach the market and Éponine gives each of them a portion of Combeferre's money. She'll have to negotiate some very good bargains to stretch the rest of it as far as it needs to go, but what's the point of selling out her pride if she can't at least make her siblings happy with the proceeds of the sale?

They both scamper off, chattering eagerly with one another about what they could do with their money, and Éponine smiles to herself as she watches them go. When they've disappeared from sight, she fingers the rest of the coins Combeferre gave her, squares her shoulders, and starts into the market to try to make the most of what she has left for her family.

She's good at negotiating, she's had to be. But still, it wearies her, leaves her back tight with tension and her chest squeezed with worry, her mind reeling with the endless calculations of what every change in price might mean for the remains of her budget. Halfway through the morning, she's made a start on what she needs for their provisions and is so focused on the job at hand and the dwindling number of coins in her pouch that she scarcely notices when she turns a corner in the market, searching for a farmer she knows who will give her a decent price on eggs from his hens, and comes up short in front of a very familiar face.

"Éponine, darling." Montparnasse smiles broadly at her, and Éponine feels as though the ground has evaporated beneath her feet and left her falling, reeling at the sudden intrusion of her old life in the realm of her new one. "I haven't seen you in an age. Did you miss me?"

"I'm busy," she says, and ducks out from beneath the arm he tries to sling about her shoulders. "We'll have to catch up later." _Never,_ she thinks, but holds her tongue. He knows her parents, doesn't so much have his toe dipped in the circles they move in as he's fully immersed. If he tells her parents he saw her here... _They have no claim on me now,_ she thinks violently, but she knows it's not true, not in any of the ways that really matter. They have connections, and the ruthlessness to use them. And they have parental claim over Gavroche and Azelma, if they care enough to fight for it.

She doesn't think they'd care at all about the children. But about the charms, oh yes. They'd fight for that.

"Too busy for a favor for an old friend?" Montparnasse asks, his voice slick and wheedling, and Éponine makes herself stop. She draws two long, slow breaths before she turns around.

"What do you want?"

"A charm. Just a little obfuscation charm, that's all." He leans a shoulder against a post supporting the roof over one of the stalls, insouciant. "We've got a job tonight, you see."

She swallows back the bile in her throat. "With my parents?"

There's a brightness in Montparnasse's eyes that makes Éponine want to run away as fast as her legs will carry her. He knows. Or, if he doesn't know the exact truth, he knows something's changed. Something's amiss.

"Nah. Take's not big enough to bring in everyone. Just me and Babet."

A job means a theft, and it shouldn't make her freeze like this. She's helped him, and her parents, with worse. What does she care if some bourgeois loses a piece of silver or two, when they're rich enough they probably wouldn't even notice the lack?

_Combeferre would care,_ she thinks, and shuts her eyes.

Montparnasse drapes his arm around her again, and she stands stiff but doesn't pull away, this time. "What do you say? One little favor, that's all I need. I'll give you a cut, of course."

_That_ makes her twitch her shoulder out from beneath his arm and turn about to face him. "I'm not your crew," she says. "You'll pay me up front for my services or you'll find someone else to work your charm."

He smiles like he's won, and she doesn't correct him because he's not wrong. She's never been able to afford the cost of her own pride. Why should that change now?

"What have you got?" she asks him.

He drops something into her palm, a little children's top, scarcely bigger than her thumb, small enough to tuck in a pocket or hold in a fist. She curls her fingers around it and weaves the charm into the grain of the wood. It's a simple thing, just a pull here, a twist there -- just enough to fool the eye of anyone who looks upon him. It won't keep him from being seen, that's the sort of charm that takes layers of magic and hours of concentration, not the sort that can be worked in the middle of a busy market with no one the wiser. It will make him unobtrusive, though, no matter where he goes. People will see him, but they'll take no note of him, and his presence will cause no one any alarm.

It's done in a moment. Montparnasse holds his hand out and she lays it in his palm, but doesn't release it, keeps it pressed between their hands with her fingers wrapped tight around his wrist until he startles and meets her gaze.

"You'll pay me now," she says, her voice sharp and commanding. "And you won't speak a word of this to anyone. Not a soul, Montparnasse, or I'll track down the nearest police inspector and tell him everything I know."

She knows a great deal, not just about the job they're planning but dozens of jobs that Montparnasse has done in the past, and dozens of his contacts and associates. She could get them all thrown in prison for many years, and as Montparnasse looks down at her and holds eye contact, she sees in his gaze the recognition of that, and the belief that she'll keep her word.

It's enough that she releases him, leaving the charm in his palm, and stands there imperious and waiting while he tucks it away in a pocket and then pulls out his coin pouch.

He counts the coins into her palm, a crooked smile playing about his mouth like all this money business is beneath him. When he stops, she holds a modest amount of money in her palm, and she just stands there, waiting, her palm still held out between them, until he sighs and lays several more coins on top of the rest. "This is highway robbery," he protests as she smiles and pockets the coins.

"You asked me to commit a criminal act in a public place on no notice and with no wait. This is the price of business, Montparnasse."

It's a fair price, if balanced a bit more in her favor than his, and he must know it because he doesn't protest beyond that, just tips his hat to her, says, "It's always a pleasure, Éponine. I'll honor our arrangement," and slips away into the crowd.

Éponine watches him go, and then has to fight back the urge to reach down and press her fingers to her payment through the fabric of her coin pouch. She knows firsthand how a cutpurse might seize upon such a gesture, and take it as sign that a mark's carrying enough to make a good score. She knows better than to give herself away like that.

But it's more money even than Combeferre gave her, and having the weight of it pulling at her pouch makes her breathe a little easier. It makes her feel less like she's drowning.

She shakes her skirts out instead, tugs her bodice back straight and proper and settles her sleeves under the guise of brushing off a bit of dirt from the road. And when she's put back together again and looking as respectable as a girl like her can be, she determines to put Montparnasse entirely out of her mind, and continues on her way to find her farmer acquaintance.

It's easier said than done. She's lived her whole life as her father's daughter, and only a few days as Combeferre's wife. She struggles at it for the rest of the morning, while she finishes her shopping and tracks down Azelma and Gavroche to herd them back home, but by the time they're heading home, with the children running ahead of her and the weight of their groceries in her arms, she almost feels like she's managed to pry herself free from the reaching grasp of her old life. She might not have made a place for herself in her new one yet, but she's trying. That's all anyone can ask of her, isn't it?

*

She doesn't expect Combeferre to greet them at the door, not when he had no way of knowing when they meant to return, though on second thought it occurs to her that he must have heard the children coming from three blocks away. Even so: she doesn't expect him to greet them at the door, but what takes her even more by surprise is the way he smiles at them all in greeting, warm and welcoming like he really means it, and then easily takes the bags and parcels from her hands as he ushers them all inside, so quick and so smooth that she doesn't even have a chance to protest.

She's left blinking after him and fighting off a wave of consternation.

She follows him into the kitchen, where he's already neatly putting away the produce that she spent the morning bargaining for. She still doesn't know the way his kitchen is organized well enough to insist on doing this part on her own -- but she _is_ growing familiar enough that she shoulders her way into the narrow kitchen with him and starts helping, her shoulders tight and braced for him to speak the first word suggesting that she shouldn't.

He doesn't, and when they've finally put the last of the things in their place, she releases a long, slow breath she hadn't meant to be holding. But now, without work to keep her hands busy and her thoughts occupied, she's all too aware of just how narrow the kitchen is, and just how awkward it is as they try to maneuver past one another, and just how long Combeferre has been standing there with his gaze resting quietly, thoughtfully upon her, like he's in no rush and would be content to do so for the rest of the morning if she let him.

If he expects her to let him, then he's in for a surprise, she thinks, and shoves a hand into her belt pouch to pull out enough coins to match what Combeferre had given her that morning. She holds it out to him, waiting for him to offer his hand for her to drop the coins into.

"Here," she says, when he's just watching her with quiet surprise and making no move to actually take the money from her. "You're very generous"-- _too_ generous--"but we didn't end up needing it after all."

That, at last, seems to break Combeferre from his reverie. He glances down at the glint of precious metals between Éponine's fingers, and then looks back up at her directly. "Keep it."

Something in the easy way he says it, like the money's no matter, catches in her chest and pulls like a fishing hook. She sucks in a breath and tightens the corners of her mouth. "I told you, I don't need it--"

"Éponine," he says, patient and gentle and coming off more than a little patronizing.

She slaps the coins down on the counter and says, "I'm no charity case. It's your money, you can take it back or leave it there, for all I care. But I'm not keeping it."

He says her name again, but this time it's with his eyes gone round, his tone surprised and just a little bit hurt. "You can't think that's what this is."

Her laughter is wild, scathing. There's a retort poised on her tongue, but she catches a glimpse from the corner of her eye of the children, Azelma watching them both owl-eyed and Gavroche feigning disinterest, but holding his head at an angle that she knows means he's listening to every word. She snaps her mouth shut before she's spoken a word, and when she does speak, it's to say, "Azelma, Gavroche. Give us a moment."

Azelma protests, and even Gavroche looks reluctant, though ordinarily he'd leap at any excuse to escape her supervision. Éponine catches his eye and jerks her head to the door, and after a moment he heaves a great sigh, rolls his eyes, and pulls at Azelma's arm to lead her to the door. "We'll be back in an hour," he mutters grudgingly, like he does when she's nagging him, though she hasn't said a word.

She waits, her gaze following him, until they've both left and she can no longer hear their footsteps down the hall. Then she turns to Combeferre, fire already sparking through her veins. "What exactly would you call this, then, if not charity?"

He rubs a thumb against his wedding band, a subtle movement that catches her eye and draws it. But he never looks away from her, even so. She wonders if he's even aware that he's doing it. "I'd call it marriage. Helping each other when we can, when we need it...that's what marriage _is_." There's a slight lilt to the end of the statement, almost enough to make it a question, the _isn't it?_ left unspoken.

"I needed help, and you gave it," she snaps. "But I told you, I don't need your money, and I don't want it, not when you're handing it out like you're giving alms to the poor."

"It's _our_ money. We're married. Any money I have belongs to you as much as it does to me."

She wraps her arms around her chest and tucks her chin against her chest, staring him down. "Sure, but it's not exactly a real marriage, now is it?"

_That_ makes his gaze go sharp and intent, his focus snapping in on her. "Did you speak your vows in good faith?" he asks her, and she realizes with a dizzy sort of certainty that she could tell him right now, that she could tell him no, that this is all a sham, that it's just to give her an avenue of escape from her parents, and a way to protect her brother and sister. And if she did, she thinks this would all be over. She could be free of him, free of this marriage, free of the perpetual feeling as though she's walking along a ship's deck, the ground tilting and rolling beneath her feet with every step.

Instead what she does, without even enough of a pause to think it through, is fill her lungs with air and snap, "If you're going to threaten me with annulment every time I turn around then we may as well just fuck right now, and be done with it. I said my vows, and I meant as much of them as I'm able."

Combeferre shuts his eyes, and then brings a hand up to cover them, his head bent forward as though he's grieved, or pained. His voice, when he speaks, is strangled. "It's not a threat. I told you the first night, Éponine, and I meant it. Any decisions about this relationship are yours to make."

" _Relationship_." She nearly spits the word out. "How stupid do you think I am? This isn't a relationship--in a relationship, everyone's getting something out of it. So what are you getting out of this, then? What exactly am I bringing to this _relationship_ to make any of this worthwhile? Because so far all I've seen is that we're taking up your home, and your food, and your money--" Her breath is getting thin, her chest tight. She's not sure when this started to feel less like anger, and more like fear. "If that's not charity, I don't know what is."

Combeferre lowers his hand and looks at her, and he looks so sad, he looks like she's the saddest thing he's ever seen in his life. "There are all sorts of relationships, and any number of reasons to be in one that aren't based upon barter and trade. I don't need anything from you to be happy in this relationship."

"You might not," she says, and she's breathing hard, like she's just been running, though the only thing that's racing is her heart, "but I do."

He makes a slight noise, inquiring, encouraging.

She rolls her eyes. Honestly, how can someone so smart be so dim? " _Equality._ To not feel beholden to you." Because the thing about charity was, it could be taken away. It was easy for him to make promises about leaving the decision-making in her hands _now_ , only a few days after their wedding, but later, when the shine had worn off, when he'd grown tired of her, of _them_...if all he was getting out of this arrangement was the self-satisfied glow of helping someone in need, then what would there be to keep him from changing his mind, when that glow had died and their needs had become burdensome? If this were a trade that were closer to equal, if she could provide him something he would then lack, if he tired of her and evicted them from his home and his life, then the likelihood he would do so would be that much less. He would be more likely to keep them around, if she could give him a reason to do so less nebulous than an inclination toward charity.

Combeferre gives her a thoughtful look, and it's not entirely pleased, but at least it looks like he's considering what she said, and not dismissing it out of hand. "I'll take the money back, if you feel that strongly about it," he says after a moment, and slowly extends his hand, like even that is hard for him. He waits until she's dropped the coins into his palm and he's closed his fingers around them to add, "But I'm not going to stop trying to provide for my wife. Please don't ask that of me. I meant my vows, same as you."

He doesn't qualify them like she did -- _as much of them as I'm able_ \-- and she takes a moment to consider him, and what that means. He's inscrutable, though, as he pockets the coins she returned to him. She learned how to read people when she was younger than Azelma is, sitting on her father's knee as he murmured his lessons into her ear, before she was grown enough to realize that his words were poison and his lessons would bring her nothing but trouble. Still-- she's always been good at reading people. But Combeferre, she can't read at all.

*

The next morning, Éponine wakes early, to the thin, watery light just before dawn and silence from the rest of the house. She wraps a blanket around her shoulders and pads out quietly on stocking feet to make tea. The house is still and quiet around her, the only sound coming from the occasional snapping of the fire in the stove and the low rumble as the kettle heats on top of it. The lure to slide back into the warmth of her bed and go back to sleep is a tempting one, but the luxury of a quiet, solitary morning to herself is one she rarely has the opportunity to indulge in -- and with the echo of her own words from the day before still resonating through her mind, she starts pulling out the provisions that she'd brought home and getting things ready to make breakfast for the household.

By the time she hears sounds of stirring from the bedrooms, breakfast is ready and she's swept and mopped the floors, as well. She expects Gavroche -- he's always been an early riser -- or perhaps Azelma, but instead it's Combeferre who comes shuffling down the hallway, rubbing a hand over his eyes and yawning.

"The tea's gone a little cold," she tells him as she pours a cup for him. "But it'll do you until the next pot brews. And there's porridge, and fruit, if you've the stomach to eat."

"Thank you," he says, a little abruptly, and when he drops his hand from his eyes he's frowning as he reaches for the cup.

She frowns in turn, and pulls it back from him a fraction. "You can wait for the next pot, if you'd prefer. It's no difference to me." She's never been one to squander tea, it's too costly for her to have been able to afford to be picky about it. She's drunk any number of cold pots down to their dregs and been grateful to have it, but it grows more and more obvious with every day that passes that Combeferre is much freer with his coin than her household could ever afford to be. He's not wealthy, not by any means, and maybe only a fraction more comfortable than her family. But he's secure in it in a way she's never known, and she can't be sure whether it's simply his nature, or if it's a product of having a reliable income, rather than the illicit, unpredictable sort of her parents.

He looks startled, though, enough that the frown falls off of his face. "I didn't mean to give insult. Please, what you have is fine. I'm always leaving pots to grow cold at my elbow when my work distracts me."

It softens her to him somewhat. She offers him the tea again, and lets him take it. "You were frowning," she says by way of explanation, as he cradles the cup in his hands and lifts it to inhale the scent of the tea. "I thought--"

"Oh." He lowers the cup and looks contrite. "Forgive me, that wasn't it at all. It's only this headache that's troubling me."

She looks at him uncertainly. "You had a headache yesterday, too."

His smile is thin, wan. It makes him look weary, even though he's just woken from a full night's sleep. "It's being quite persistent, I'm afraid."

"Do you have any willow bark about the house? I could brew a tisane for you."

He smiles, but it's a soft, sad sort of smile. It's the kind of smile people give when they're going to tell someone no, and they think a turn of their lips can soften the sting of it. "That's very kind of you, but it's not necessary."

She lifts the kettle to check the heat coming off the stove and sets it back hard enough that it rings against the metal stovetop, opens the stove door to check on the firewood and the embers burning inside, then slams that shut as well. "It's not kind, it's just an offer. If you don't want it simply say so, but necessity is a poor excuse. You've done so many things for me that haven't been necessary, and I just--" She breaks off as her throat gets thick and her words start to get choked. She takes several careful breaths, sips from her own tea to clear her throat, and when she's regained control of herself, finishes carefully, "I just don't think you have any room to talk about doing unnecessary things for one another, that's all."

Combeferre's looking down into the depths of his cup, very determinedly not catching her eye. "I don't have any in the house, I'm afraid. I'm not usually plagued by headaches that are pernicious enough to require it. But I do appreciate the thought, Éponine. Thank you."

"Drink your tea, then," she says, and waves him at it. "And I'll make you fresh, and maybe that'll help."

He looks like he wants to protest, but he doesn't, just takes his tea and dishes himself up some porridge from the pot on the stove, and carries both over to the table. She brings him a spoon while the kettle rumbles as it warms, and he looks up at her with a chagrined smile that eases away his frown lines for a moment, and makes creases at the corners of his eyes, and as his hand grazes hers as he accepts the spoon from her, she is struck for a moment by how very handsome he is, sitting there sleep-rumpled and hair tousled and the faintest shadow of stubble on his jaw as he smiles at her, as his fingers graze hers.

She turns away abruptly, her heart hammering against her breastbone. She's stupid, she's so stupid. She knows better than to put any stock in a pretty face. She doesn't need this, not now. Not here. Not when her freedom and her siblings' safety depends upon it.

She finishes brewing the tea and leaves the pot on the table, serves up a bowl of porridge for herself and hesitates over whether to take the seat adjacent to Combeferre's, or the one across from him. Adjacent would give her an excuse to eat her breakfast without having to look Combeferre in the eye, but it also places her elbow-to-elbow with him and she's not sure she can bear that right now. Across would preserve a greater distance between them, but make catching his eye across the table almost inevitable.

Combeferre must notice her indecision, or perhaps simply wonder at why she's remained standing with her bowl and cup in her hands so long, because he stretches a leg out beneath the table to push at the leg of the chair across from him, nudging it out from the table for her. And he smiles at her with a warm sort of welcome, without even any question there about why she's acting so strangely.

Across it is, then. She takes a breath and squares her shoulders and accepts the seat as graciously as she can, and then busies herself with adding milk to her tea and honey to her porridge and any other excuse she can find to avoid having to lift her gaze and meet Combeferre's across the breakfast table.

It's a relief when Azelma and Gavroche wake, and come tumbling out of their bedroom with the raucous clamor that seems inevitable to children everywhere. She kisses them both good morning, and ruffles Gavroche's hair when he groans a protest, then leaves her own bowl half-emptied to join them in the kitchen and help them dish their own. And then, with both of them sitting at the table, to either side of them both and talking on as though the words have been building up within them all night and can't be contained any longer -- then it's easy to focus on the children, and converse with them, and not have to catch Combeferre's eye at all.

When they've all finished eating, Éponine gathers up everyone's dishes, but before she can carry them to the kitchen Combeferre rises and takes them from her easily, in a gesture so smooth it seems almost practiced. "You cooked," he says in answer to her wordless protest, like it's as easy as that. "It's the least I can do."

She huffs out a breath and presses her lips thin, but cedes the argument without beginning it, and goes out instead to the sitting room where the children are, to sit with them and pull Azelma up onto her lap and engage them both in conversation.

She doesn't notice when Combeferre has finished cleaning up after their breakfast, and only discovers it when some time has passed and she turns her head from the children with the thought that Combeferre must be taking his time at the chore indeed. She slides out from underneath Azelma's slight weight, leaves her with a kiss upon the crown of her head, and makes her way into the kitchen to see if Combeferre might have wearied of his task enough to allow her to help.

She's taken aback when she discovers the kitchen empty, all the dishes washed and left to dry, and Combeferre nowhere to be found. He must have slipped past them while she was preoccupied, enjoying her time with her siblings, and made his escape with none of them any the wiser.

She dries the last spots of water from the dishes and returns them all to their places on the shelves, then follows the path Combeferre must have taken, passing the sitting room unnoticed as Gavroche and Azelma play together, and walks with quiet steps down the hall to the door to Combeferre's workshop. It's been left ajar, just enough to reveal the narrowest strip of light coming from the room beyond, as though Combeferre swung the door shut behind himself but was too preoccupied to realize that it hadn't latched.

She lingers in the hall, leaning her shoulder up against the wall just beside the door frame, beside that thread of light, listening to the sounds coming from within, of cloth brushing against itself, a person's soft breathing, the quiet clink of metal or glass. It feels like a secret she's stolen to listen to him like this, unknown, unobserved.

After a moment, though, the thrill of the secret fades instead to the sick weight of guilt. She reaches for the edge of the door and swings it open, enough for her to step half through and catch his eye and confess her presence.

Her mouth is already open as she leans inside, the words already poised upon her tongue, but she pulls them back to discover Combeferre's back turned to her, his head tipped forward and his shoulders bowed as he bends over something she cannot see. There are all manner of things scattered about him on the table that runs through the middle of the room, odd-shaped glass bottles and strange-looking substances and bottles of liquids labelled with names she's never heard of before. It all looks very precise and very delicate, and Combeferre still looks to be bent over in a state of concentration that she doesn't wish to disturb. So she abandons what she had meant to say and sidles out of the doorway just as quietly as she'd slipped into it, and carefully eases the door shut behind herself. She listens for the sound of it latching, so neither she nor the children will inadvertently distract him at his work, and then she retreats back down the hallway to where Azelma and Gavroche are playing together, grateful for the silent steps of her stocking feet.

It's a rare luxury to be able to spend the day with them, simply enjoying their company without any other errands or obligations to demand her attention. They see Combeferre a few times, when he comes out from his study in search of something to eat or drink, but they're brief glimpses, and he still seems as preoccupied by his own thoughts as he had within his workshop, scarcely sparing them a glance and an acknowledging smile before his gaze goes distant again.

Towards afternoon, after having observed his comings and goings for most of the day, Éponine brews a pot of tea, pours a cup for herself, and then brings the pot to Combeferre's workshop. She raps lightly on the door, pauses a moment and takes the distracted, "Hmm?" she receives from within as the most response she's likely to get, and nudges the door open with a foot so she can carry the pot inside.

"I thought you might like some tea," she says, hushed because even though Combeferre is half-turned toward her at her entrance, he still looks as though he is a thousand miles away. "It's fresh. I just brewed it." She comes closer to him, stepping carefully through the workshop's clutter and warily eyeing all the fragile glass implements on the counter.

"You're an angel," Combeferre says reverently, and takes the empty cup that she brought with her, holds it cradled in his hands as she pours the tea into it for him. When it's full, he brings the cup up and inhales deeply of the steam that rises from its surface, then sips, and looks up at her. For the first time since breakfast, she thinks he truly sees her. "Thank you, Éponine."

She shrugs a shoulder, uncomfortable with his gratitude and the way he's looking at her, like she's something good and wonderful, but unwilling to say something that might start an argument. "How's your head?" she asks instead, to change the subject to something less likely to make her stomach squirm with anxiety.

He looks startled, and then smiles. "Much improved, thank you."

Her gaze had started to slide away from him, to take in his workshop now that she can look her fill without feeling as though she's trespassing. But at his answer, she swings her gaze back to meet his, and narrows her eyes with a frown. "But not gone," she says, and it's not a question.

He lifts one shoulder with a loose shrug and a dismissive gesture. "These things take time. You needn't fret about me. A headache's a minor inconvenience, nothing more."

He sounds so sincere, she'd be inclined to believe him, but she remembers the way he's looked for the past two mornings, the way pain had drawn uncharacteristic creases on his face, and she thinks he's understating it for her benefit. Still, what is there to be done about it? She can't overrule his protests and insist he take something for the pain anyway, the way she could with the children. If he wishes to suffer with it and pretend as though he's not, that's his right.

She leaves him be shortly after that, leaves him with his tea and his work and returns to the children. And when the afternoon grows late and Gavroche grows restless, she ushers them both into the kitchen and gives them tasks, slicing up vegetables and chopping herbs.

She makes a stew to help stretch their provisions, and as the fragrance of it fills the house she half expects it to draw Combeferre from his workshop like a siren's song. She's used to cooking for herself and her siblings, when Maman and Papa were off on business or just didn't feel like bothering with them that night. She knows how to make a little seem like a lot, and she knows how to use common herbs and inexpensive spices to make a pauper's meal taste as though it belonged on a prince's table. Tonight, she lets her usual miserly grip on the meat go and allows herself to indulge without the risk of being boxed on the ears for using up something deemed too precious to waste on children. It's going to be good, she thinks, with the warmth of satisfaction glowing in her chest. And if the way Gavroche keeps trying to dip a finger into the pot and snag out a bite of meat is any indication, he agrees.

Still, she doesn't see Combeferre, so she dishes up a bowl for everyone, sets the children to eating with two additional bowls for herself and Combeferre sitting at their places at the table, and washes up all the pots and knives and utensils and leaves them all to dry on the counter before she makes her way back down the hallway to Combeferre's workshop and raps a knuckle against the door.

She gets the same half-distracted acknowledgement as before, and lets herself in to find the teapot sitting cold at his elbow, a half-drunk cup of tea beside it gone even colder, and Combeferre's attention distant and divided even as he turns to her.

"Did you drink any of that?" she asks with a laugh, and comes forward to take up the pot. It's light in her hand -- he drank most of it, at least, and only let the last few cups go to waste. "Next time I'll brew you a smaller pot."

She didn't mean it as admonishment, but still he grimaces at her words, and downs the rest of the cup in a single gulp and with an expression like a child stalwartly accepting a bitter medicine. "I didn't mean to waste it," he tells her when the cup's empty. "A problem demanded my attention, and I--"

"It's fine," she tells him gently, and while she still has his attention, curves a hand under his arm and guides him up onto his feet. "Come. Supper's ready and waiting for us. Your problem can wait, I suspect, and might seem easier to solve with a full belly and a moment to clear your head."

He doesn't protest like she expected him to. He lets her lift him to his feet and gives her a grateful smile, passes a hand over his face and gives a weary sigh through his fingers. "Thank you," he says after a moment. "I imagine you're right. Some food would do me a world of good."

"How's your head?" she asks him as she leads the way out of the workshop and he follows after her. She glances back over her shoulder in time to see him wave away the question with a grimace that she thinks is meant to look like a scoff, like it's an inconsequential worry. She wonders if he realizes just how much it looks like avoidance, instead.

"Still hurting, then," she says with no inflection at all, and hears him sigh behind her.

It's not an awkward meal, for which she's grateful. Azelma talks happily in between bites of stew, telling Combeferre all about how they kept themselves occupied in his absence, and he smiles and engages with her, asks her questions and exclaims over all the right parts of her story.

When they've all emptied their bowls, Éponine starts to rise, but Combeferre lays a hand on her shoulder as he gets to his feet. "I told you," he says. "Whoever cooks doesn't clean up after dinner. House rule."

"I can clear my own dishes, at least," she tells him, and gets to her feet all the same, so she can follow him into the kitchen.

He stops still two steps into it, and she can't repress a grin at his back. When he turns around to look at her, he looks chagrined.

"Don't look at me like that. I didn't clean up _after_ dinner, now did I?"

"You don't play fair," he says, but it's said gently, a rueful smile tipping up the corners of his mouth.

"I play to win," she answers, and brushes past him to take her bowl to the sink.

He comes and covers her hands with his own, stilling them before she can start scrubbing at anything. "You'll let me do this much, at least."

She relents, and he takes her place at the sink. She doesn't leave, though, only moves back a few steps and leans her hip in against the counter, watching him as he takes up the first bowl. "Doesn't your problem need your attention?"

He casts a smile back at her over his shoulder, and there's a glint to his eye that suggests that he knows precisely what she's trying to do. "A few extra minutes of absence won't make any appreciable difference, though I thank you for your concern."

She snorts a little, and wipes a few wayward crumbs from the counter. "What's the problem, anyway?"

He hums an absentminded, thoughtful sort of noise and wipes a strand of hair from his face with the back of his wrist, though it still leaves a streak of wetness across his brow. "Oh-- I'm having issues with reliability. I repeat the same experiment and receive different results each time. It's quite vexing."

She considers him, the tension across his shoulders and the way he bows his head over his work. "It's not giving you the result you want?"

He makes a sharp, cut-off noise and scrubs the next bowl somewhat more vigorously than is probably warranted. "That's not how science works. I'm not hoping for a particular answer. I'm just trying to get a _reliable_ one. But if the outcome changes every time the experiment's run, then the results mean nothing and I'm wasting my time, and I--" He breaks off, both his speech and his scrubbing, for at least a few seconds. Then he sighs, long and gusty, and his shoulders slump with it. "I'm sorry, you don't need me to rant at you. It's frustrating, that's all. But that's the nature of experimental science, I suppose. I'll figure it out eventually."

She leans her elbows back against the counter and tilts her head to the side, and decides to test a theory of her own. "You could tell me."

He shakes his head and pulls a wet hand through his hair, leaving droplets of water clinging to the strands. "There's no cause to trouble you over it as well. I'm sure the intricacies of variable manipulation must not be the most thrilling of after-supper conversations."

She pushes herself upright at that, sucks in a sharp breath and snaps, "If you don't want to tell me you should just say so. I don't need coddling, my pride can take it."

Combeferre straightens, his back stiff, and goes very still for the space of a breath before he spins around, his brows creased and his eyes gone big and startled. "Éponine," he breathes and reaches a hand out toward her, as though that could do anything. "I'm not--"

"You are. I know what it's like to be patronized, I promise you."

His mouth thins and purses, and she tenses where she's braced against the counter, expecting a savage word or a hand lashed out in anger. But Combeferre doesn't move at all, and he doesn't look mad, exactly, though she's not quite sure what name to give to his expression. She'd be seeing rage on either of her parents right now, had they been in his place, but he looks at her like he's sad, somehow. Her heart pounds, ready to flee or to fight at the slightest provocation, but all Combeferre does is sigh and scrub his palms over his face, and then he drops his hands and looks at her again, and he says, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."

She blinks at him, and then frowns, wary.

"I didn't think--" He blows out a swift breath of air and tips his head back as though the ceiling suddenly holds some marvelous fascination for him. "No. Well, there's no way to say it that doesn't sound insulting, I suppose, so I'll beg your forgiveness in advance. But I didn't truly think you were interested. You wouldn't be the first person to make polite inquiry only to go glassy-eyed when I answered comprehensively."

"That's not polite, it's just pretense," she snaps. "And I'm not other people. I don't ask questions I don't want the answer to."

"No," he says slowly, and looks at her again. Now he looks thoughtful and intense, like she's one of his experiments that he's trying to figure out. "I'm starting to understand that."

He still doesn't look mad, and she's beginning to slowly trust that maybe he isn't going to be. Her heart drops down out of the place in her throat where it lodged itself, and she gives a snort. "Aren't scientists supposed to be _smart?_ "

He smiles at that. It's not as broad as it's sometimes been, a little more guarded now, more cautious, but it's real. "The good ones, maybe."

She knows he's being self-deprecating, playing down his own skill, and she snorts at that, too.

"I am sorry, Éponine," he says into the silence that falls between them. "I meant no offense, but I caused it all the same, and I'm truly sorry for that."

She takes a deep breath, lets it out, and tries to let her anger out with it as well. "Yes, well. Try to have a little more faith in me next time, I suppose."

His smile is slight, just a little twitch at the corners of his mouth, pulling it wider. But it's warm and it reaches his eyes, and makes them warm, too. "I have endless amounts of faith in you. I will try to be less of a fool, though."

That makes her huff out a breath, not quite laughter but not far from it. "For that," she says, "you can finish the dishes on your own," and brushes past him, out to join Gavroche and Azelma and pull them both up onto her lap for one last cuddle before it grows late enough that they must be sent off to bed. Gavroche squawks a protest and pulls a face at her, but he doesn't fight her off, and she lets the warmth and closeness of them chase away the last of her poor mood, lets it evaporate like fog beneath the morning sun.

*

Later, after she's tucked the children into bed, Éponine hesitates before returning to the sitting room where Combeferre is sitting with a book, and where it will be just the two of them now, with no children to serve as intermediaries or distractions. He's been nothing but pleasant to her since their fight in the kitchen, but that was with Azelma and Gavroche around, and she knows too well how people can mask their true feelings in company, only to let the vitriol loose once they've caught you alone.

She doesn't think Combeferre's that sort, but she's not quite sure she's ready for the awkwardness of sitting alone with him just yet, either. So when she's finished saying goodnight to the children, instead of returning to the sitting room, she sets herself instead to the work of drawing a bath into the heavy copper tub in the bedroom, tucked behind the changing screen. She heats water on the stove for it as well, just enough to make the tepid water pleasantly warm, and finds a bar of sturdy soap, nothing fine like wealthy ladies and lords bathe with, but Combeferre had splurged at least a little on a scented soap, instead of a plain utilitarian one. It smells woodsy and herbal, and makes her smile as she sniffs it. She adjusts the screen to shield the bath from view of the door, just as a precaution, and then slips into the warm water and sinks into it up to her ears.

Even a warm bath is a luxury she rarely had the chance to enjoy back home, where the effort and cost of heating even a single pot of water on the stove was one that could incite their parents' wrath if they caught them in the wrong mood. Once, as a young child, Éponine had woven a charm into the frigid water of her bath, warming it up until the heat seeped into her bones. But Maman had come in and seen the steam rising off of the water, and dragged her out of it as she'd screamed at her about her ungratefulness, and Éponine had learned then that in the Thénardier household, any magic that couldn't be sold for a profit was wasted magic, and not to be tolerated.

Now there's Combeferre to think of, to be wary of. But it's private enough here, with both the screen and the bedroom door to shield her, and for just a moment she allows herself to give into temptation. She swirls a finger through the water in a careful pattern and heat spreads through the bath and into her skin, like warming rays of sun breaking through on a cloudy day. She lets out a long sigh and relaxes deeper into the bath, leaning her head back against its edge.

The warmth of the water is a balm to the aching muscles of her body. She feels tired in a way she isn't accustomed to -- tired but satisfied, pleased with the work of the day. Back home, she had gone to bed tired near every night, but it hadn't been like this. It had been a frazzled, strained sort of weariness, and it had always been accompanied by guilt and tension, the worry that she hadn't done enough to satisfy her parents, and the fear that she'd suffer for it come morning.

This isn't like that. She feels good. She feels happy, even as she's tired, and she lets the heat soak through her skin and down to her bones, and once she's lathered up with the fancy soap and rinsed off, she allows herself to linger. She sinks into the bath up to her neck and scarcely moves at all, except to scrawl another spell through the water whenever it starts cooling off.

She's not sure how long she soaks for -- long enough that her arm is pink, when she lifts it from the water, and the steam from the bath has made tendrils of her hair damp, though she hasn't washed it yet, and occasionally the steam condenses enough onto the side of her neck that it forms a droplet and slides down her throat, dripping back down into the bath again. But eventually she's roused from her drifting thoughts by a rap at the door, and before she can collect her hazy thoughts well enough to respond, the faint, familiar creak of the door's hinges.

"Éponine? I don't mean to disturb you, but I wanted-- Oh." It's Combeferre's voice, and it's obvious the moment he realizes he's interrupted her at more than just brushing her hair out or reading a book before bed, because the pitch of his voice changes abruptly and that last, breathed exhalation comes out almost strangled. "I'm sorry, I-- I _am_ intruding."

He is, rather. And she could send him away with a word, tell him she'll be along momentarily and he can say whatever it is that's on his mind once she's risen from the bath and dried herself and dressed herself properly. But the bath is so wonderfully warm and her body is so wonderfully lax, and the thought of leaving it just because he wants to have a conversation makes her sigh. She so rarely gets to indulge herself, and she's not ready to be done yet.

So rather than sending him off, she stays in the bath and says instead, "What was it that you wanted?"

"I--" She listens as he takes a short, shuffling step, and then another, coming just inside the room. His shadow falls across the divider that separates them. "I'd rather not converse with you through this screen. Are you sure-- Are you decent?"

He asks the last question doubtfully. She nearly takes pity on him then, and sends him on his way after all. But, well-- They _are_ married, after all, aren't they? It seems foolish to fret over modesty like two sweethearts just beginning a courtship, when they are husband and wife and not courting one another besides.

In any case, her washing had left enough of a film of soap and bubbles floating on the bath's surface that he'd be hard-pressed to see anything untoward, even if he cared to. She surveys it critically for a moment, sinks down a fraction deeper into the water, and then says, "Decent enough, and not inclined to remove myself anytime soon, so you may as well come say what's on your mind. There's no sense in making you wait."

His steps are quiet whispers across the floor, and they come surer now. "If you're sure you-- Oh." His first _oh_ had been strangled, but this second is breathed soft as a prayer. "You and I have different ideas of decency, I think."

She makes a short, irritated noise and flicks a hand through the bath, sending droplets scattering across the water's surface by her feet. "We're wed, aren't we? There's no one can call this indecent between a husband and wife."

"We're wed, yes." He's behind her, standing at the end of the privacy screen, out of her sight unless she twists to look over her shoulder. His voice is soft now, but not certain. She thinks if she bothered to try, she'd find him looking at her like she's one of his experiments again, doing something wholly unexpected. "But we're not lovers. I wouldn't presume such intimacy."

"You didn't presume. I invited you in." They're not lovers, not sweethearts, not courting. It's a pragmatic sort of relationship that they have between them, a pragmatic reason behind the rings that adorn both of their fingers. She'd rather they could be pragmatic about this, as well, instead of stammering over their own tongues and fretting over every inch of bared skin or the flash of an ankle. But if Combeferre is struggling with the idea of it so much, perhaps it would be easier after all to send him out, and leave the bath. She sighs and swirls her hand through the water again, drawing aimless tracks through the film of soap on its surface. It's not a spell this time, just an idle gesture. "I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable. If you wait for me outside, I can be ready in a moment, and then we can talk."

He's silent for a long moment. "I'm not uncomfortable," he says at last, and he sounds as surprised as she is.

She does twist, then, to look back at him over his shoulder and give him a dubious look. "Are you sure?"

"I'm a scientist," he says. "I know what the human body looks like."

It's not exactly an answer, and even then she suspects it's not exactly a truthful one, but if he's going to feign indifference, she has better things to do than argue with him about it. She settles back into the bath again, and when he doesn't say anything else, prompts him, "You said you wanted to talk about something?"

"It isn't that important." He sounds chagrined, and she believes this better. "I wanted-- Well. Foremost, I suppose, I wanted to thank you."

He's still behind her and she can't look at him for more than a moment without risking a crick in her neck or exposing herself in a truly indecent way, so all she can do is lean back and blink at the privacy screen where it curls around the foot of the tub. "For _what?_ " she manages to ask, and can't help that she sounds thoroughly bewildered when she does.

He makes a sound that, she thinks, is not entirely pleased. "Do you truly not know? For supper. For the cleaning. For the tea you brought me earlier. For... everything."

She can't even scoff and roll her eyes. Or, she supposes, she could, but the gesture would be lost, when he's behind her and can't see any of it. But without the ability to try to shrug off his praise, instead she finds her face burning for reasons that have nothing to do with the water's temperature, and finds herself seized by the abrupt desire to sink down into the bathwater until it's swallowed her up entirely. "You don't have to--"

"I'm not thanking you because I have to. I'm thanking you because I'm grateful."

"It's the least I can do," she says past the heaviness weighing on her chest.

"It's really not."

She looks down at the water, at the subtle patterns made by the soap swirling across its surface. She wants to tell him to stop, but she doesn't know how. She wants to see him, but she doesn't dare look. "You said--" Her words come a little strangled. She has to stop and clear her throat before she can try again. "You said _foremost_. Was there something else you wanted to talk about?"

_Please_ , she prays silently, to anyone who will listen. _Please, let it be something easier than this._

"The thing is," he says, all at once, and with a sudden firmness to his voice, like a man come to a decision. "The thing is, I've done absolutely everything humanly possible to eliminate extraneous variables, I'm certain I have. I've been over it time and again, I can't fathom what I might be missing. But when it takes days for results to even begin to be observable, it's not only an incredible waste of time, but it also makes it fiendishly difficult to identify where the error might lie--"

_Oh_ , she realizes, all at once, with a giddy sort of relief and a sudden release of the tension around her chest, so swift it nearly makes her lightheaded. _Oh, this is about his_ work. _This is because I asked him to talk to me about it_.

And, if she were being thoroughly honest with herself, almost certainly because she had yelled at him for assuming she wasn't sincere.

She'd thought there had been something wrong, that she'd done something that had upset him and he'd come to have it out with her about it. That it's not is a tremendous relief, and she sinks back in the tub with a long, relieved sigh. She doesn't understand much of what he's saying -- something about cross-contamination, but she isn't even certain what his experiments _are_ , which makes it difficult to follow his wandering monologue -- but still, the cadence of his voice is pleasant, and it's nice enough to listen to him talk about something that matters so dearly to him, and that he is so passionate about. She sinks a little lower in the tub and reaches up idly with one hand to pull the pins out of her hair, so she can let it tumble down and occupy herself with washing it while she listens to him rhapsodize about control samples.

She doesn't get more than halfway through the movement of reaching up for the pins before she stills and Combeferre's voice goes suddenly silent behind her. No doubt, they both realized the same thing at the same moment: that there's no way for her to reach up to loosen her hair without rising out of the water at least a little, and exposing herself more thoroughly than even pragmatism could endure.

She quickly lowers her arm and sinks down again, but the silence stretches all the same, until Combeferre quietly clears his throat. "I could help you?"

She's not sure if it's a suggestion or a question, and not sure what he intends of it besides. "How so?"

"If you'll allow me...?" He gives his answer in the gentle brush of his fingers across her hair. There's a silent offer in his touch, and in the careful way he slides the first pin free from her hair.

She lets him, only trembling a little while he methodically removes every hairpin and sets her hair loose in a cascade to curl down around her shoulders, and then weigh more heavily where it gets wet from the bathwater. He brushes his fingers through the strands and up to stroke across her scalp, easing out any snarls and searching for any wayward pins that might remain.

"Tip back?" he says in that same quiet, soothing voice. "Careful."

She slides forward, pulling her knees up to her chest, to make enough room so she can do as he says and lean backwards. His hands cup the back of her head and ease her down until she's floating, her face out of the water but her ears half-submerged, Combeferre's fingers gentle at the back of her neck as he pulls them through her hair, wetting it thoroughly.

He guides her back upright with the lightest change of pressure at her nape, and she obeys, wrapping her arms across her chest lest he see something he oughtn't and self-combust from the embarrassment of it.

"Soap?"

She fishes it out of the tub and passes it back to him, and doesn't dare look at him when she does. She doesn't think she could bear it. This is almost too much for her as it is.

He works the soap through her hair and begins to build up a soft, fragrant lather. For the first few moments, there's silence between them, and Éponine stares at her knees where they poke up out of the water and tries to remember how to breathe.

She hasn't quite managed it when he starts talking to her again, his voice low and soft and this time, with the hint of an uneven edge that hadn't been there before. But he just resumes quietly telling her about his experiments and the problems he's been having, the frustrations he's facing. After a few moments, she clears her throat and manages to draw air enough to ask him a question.

She can hear the smile in his voice as he answers her, but she loses the meaning of his words when he slides one hand into her hair and begins to rub careful circles across her scalp.

Bathing had always been a hurried affair for her, previously, and she's accustomed to brusquely scratching her nails through her hair to clean it thoroughly, and simply tolerated the discomfort of it. This, though-- this is so gentle it steals from her what little breath she had managed to gather in her lungs, and leaves her heart aching just a little bit, for reasons she can't identify.

Combeferre takes his time, but is thorough at his work. He urges her back again, with a light touch on her shoulder that vanishes as soon as she understands his meaning, as though he fears even that is too great a trespass. The water sloshes a little as she repositions herself, but he gives no indication that he spares any thought for the carpets, just cups his hand behind her head and helps take the weight of it, while he gives that same focus and dedication to washing the crown of her head, and all the way up to her hairline.

His fingers are gentle when they sweep across her temples, and when he gets soap on her brow, dripping toward her eyes, he makes a low sound like apology and dips his hand into the bathwater to wipe it away.

She's shivering by the time he's finished, though the water is still warm and steaming. And when he's done, he curves his hand at the back of her neck and takes the weight of her head as he lowers her back into the water again. She shuts her eyes as he does so, because all this time he's been behind her, out of sight, and she doesn't think she could bear to look at him now, with her chest laid open and all her usual defenses stripped away by his soft hands and his careful touch.

She shuts her eyes, but not quick enough. She still catches just a glimpse of him, his head bowed over her and a slight furrow of concentration creasing his brow, before she squeezes her eyes shut and sinks lower in the bath, so the water comes up over her ears and all the sounds of the world are muffled.

He runs his hands through her hair, carefully working the water through it to rinse out the soap, and she keeps her eyes shut and listens to the unsteady rhythm of her breathing, loud in her ears, and the murmur of the water as his hands move through it.

He urges her to sit up with the lightest of pressure behind her neck, a whisper of a suggestion. She does so and curls forward, hair and water running in warm streams down her back. He carefully swipes the errant strands of hair back from her brow and tucks it behind her ear. He clears his throats behind her twice, like he's fighting a cough, before he asks, "Where's your brush?" on a hushed breath.

She has to clear her throat, too, before she's able to answer. "On the table beside the bed. You don't have to—"

He doesn't wait to hear the rest of her protest, just leaves her with a soft touch on her shoulder. She still doesn't turn, just listens to the quiet noise of his shoes on the floor, the scrape of the brush across the table and his footsteps returning to her.

She doesn't flinch when he settles behind her again and sweeps the hair up off of her back and into his hand. She braces herself, then, cringing before he's even done anything more, in anticipation of it all going wrong here. But he starts from the bottom, working through just the ends of her hair with careful strokes of the brush, and she lets her breath out all at once.

She wonders who took the time to teach him how to brush long hair, when his is short enough to be easily cared for despite the curls, but she doesn't dare ask. This moment between them feels as delicate as spun glass, easily shattered, so she pulls her knees up to her chest and leans her cheek against them and lets Combeferre carefully brush the tangles from her hair.

In this, too, she's accustomed to a rough, rushed job, to hastily dragging the brush through her hair and enduring the pain because there was always something that needed doing and never enough time to spare. This feels as indulgent as the bath did, and just as much a luxury.

She shivers once, when Combeferre's fingers graze her nape as he gathers her hair off of it. He hesitates, and then his hand is on her shoulder, lightly urging her back. "Lay back," he says. "Your bath's still warm. You'll catch a chill sitting up half out of it like this."

She relents gradually, sinking back by slow degrees, until she's leaning back against the tub's sloped edge once more, her hair lifted out over its rim and the water up to her neck again, and she drifts in the warmth of the water and the rhythmic strokes of the brush through her hair. Even though her hair likes to tangle for no more reason than you looked at it funny, while Combeferre wields it, the brush never snarls, and he never pulls at her hair.

The quiet that's fallen between them feels weighty, feels like it has a presence of its own. He came in here to speak with her, but it's been long minutes since either of them have said anything of substance to one another. Another time, she'd point that out, she'd tease him about it, but now, the words don't come. Pointing it out seems like the sort of thing that could shatter this delicate moment between them, and she couldn't put her finger on why, but she doesn't want that.

Combeferre works his way, carefully and steadily, up the length of her hair until he's drawing the brush through it in long strokes, from crown to ends, and there isn't a tangle or snarl left. Still, he doesn't stop, not right away. He brushes her hair long past when there's any need for it, and she shuts her eyes, buoyed by the warm embrace of the bath, and she doesn't stop him.

Eventually, though, his strokes slow, and then inevitably stop. For a moment they both just stay as they are, unmoving, unspeaking, the weight of Éponine's hair in his hands and his fingers sifting gently through it. Then Combeferre clears his throat, very quietly, like he's forgotten how to speak in the silence that rose between them. "Your bath must be getting cold. I wouldn't want you to take a chill."

It isn't, not really. It's cooler than it was to start with, but she's kept it comfortably warm with a few, small charms scrawled through the water. She doesn't protest, though, just takes it as her cue to sit up, arms across her chest again, hair almost dry against her back from his attentions. "I left a drying cloth over there," she says, and turns so she can gesture without baring herself before him. "If you could just--"

Turning was a mistake. She's scarcely looked at him, through all of this, and it's been by design. Now, she's looking straight at him, sitting up from the bathwater with only her arms crossed over her chest to preserve her modesty. And he's in a chair he pulled up to the end of the bath, looking just as he always does except that there's a scattering of wet spots across the legs of his trousers from where the ends of her hair must have dripped it upon him as he brushed it, and his shirtsleeves are rolled up past his elbows but even then, still a little wet on the edges from when he must have had them submerged in the bath while he rinsed the soap from her hair, and there's a faint flush across his face but concentrated especially upon his cheeks, no doubt from the warmth of the bath and the steam coming off of it.

It's a long moment before she remembers herself enough to drop her gaze, everything else she'd been about to say forgotten entirely. Combeferre's motionless a moment longer, then clears his throat again and she catches movement from the corners of her vision -- Combeferre lifting a hand to rub it across the back of his neck, turning his gaze aside to look anywhere but at her. "Do you usually do your hair up to sleep?"

"I braid it," she says, watching the milky trails of soap swirl across the water's surface.

"I could--"

"You don't have to--"

There's a moment of silence. "I could," Combeferre says again, and this time it's not cut off, it's whole and complete and spoken with weight and significance behind it. "If you wanted."

She doesn't know what she wants. She doesn't think it's to be sitting here naked and bared before him, fine shivers chasing across her skin even though she's not cold in the least. So she takes a breath and steels herself, makes her voice even when she speaks, puts a teasing edge to her voice and makes herself joke, " _You_ know how to braid?"

He could answer in kind. He could draw back from the sharpness in her words, he could put distance between them and roll his shirtsleeves down and button himself back up. They could go back to what had been between them before, steady and familiar even if it was distant and stilted, much of the time. But he doesn't. He just lets a hint of a smile -- soft and genuine, not teasing or mocking -- curl the edge of his mouth. "I have a mother," he says, like that says everything. "And sisters. I know how to braid hair."

She can't quite bring herself to move. Dueling urges war within her and leave her frozen in between them. After a moment, something on Combeferre's face softens and he comes toward her, walking along the length of the tub. "Here," he says, and lays that same barely-there touch on her shoulder. "Turn around, or your braid will end up crooked."

"I'm just going to sleep in it," she says, but does as he asks.

She can hear the warmth of a smile in his voice, even with her back to him. "My mother and sisters always got headaches if their braids hung unevenly, and the weight of it pulled at their hair."

Éponine would, too, in all honestly, and it seems as though the fact that Combeferre knows that, that he remembered it from what must have been childhood lessons, seems like it must mean something, but Combeferre's fingers brush the back of her neck as he gathers up her hair and she can't quite figure out what.

He's methodical about separating her hair into sections and weaving them together. There's an ease to his movements that makes her wonder who he's had the opportunity to practice on, in the years since childhood, because he hasn't lost the knack of it at all.

Her hair is long, but braiding is quick work, even with as much care as he's taking to ensure a smooth, even plait. When he's finished and her hair hangs heavy and cool against her back, he hesitates for a moment before his hands fall away and his feet whisper across the floor, carrying him back.

"Thank you," she says, and, "My drying cloth, if you don't mind?" before he has an opportunity to come up with another reason to linger, another reason to stay.

He tells her, "Of course," without any reluctance at all, and moves away to fetch it.

She stays as she is until he's done so, and laid it on the chair beside the tub. And then she only looks at him over her shoulder and says, "Thank you," again.

He's a clever man. He takes it for the dismissal its meant, and he takes it with only an incline of his head in her direction. "Please, once more I beg of you, forgive me my intrusion. I won't take up any more of your time than I already have, you have my word."

He leaves, and once the door has latched behind him, she finally clambers out of the tub. She dries herself off quickly, rubbing briskly at her arms and legs, and tries not to think about the braid that hangs over her shoulder, neater and tidier than any she's ever bothered to do for herself. It seems a shame to sleep on it, when it will just be a disheveled mess come morning, but she can't bring herself to undo it, either.

She dresses for bed with efficient movements, trims the wick on the lamp until the room is all in darkness, and then slides into bed and pulls the blankets all the way up over her head.

It does little to spare her any of the accumulated nerves and uncertainty that have been building in her like a conflagration ever since Combeferre let himself into the room. But the dark is a comfort, at least, as is the solitude. She squeezes her eyes shut and forces herself to focus on breathing slow and deep, and eventually, she manages to finally lull herself to sleep.

*

In the morning, she can scarcely bring herself to meet Combeferre's eye. It's easier, this way, to pretend she's forgotten about his careful ministrations the night before, about the brush of his hand against her back, about how quiet and close it had all felt, even though they had spent the majority of it in silence.

He doesn't comment upon it, either, and where she had expected awkwardness, instead, it's easy. His smile is as warm and genuine as it has ever been, and he thanks her for the breakfast she cooks for everyone just as sincerely as he ever has. And when they've all finished eating, he gently shoos her out of the kitchen and reminds her of the house rules about cleaning up, just as he always does.

She nearly allows herself to be convinced by it. But after breakfast, while Combeferre is washing the dishes and she is piled in an armchair with Azelma and Gavroche, she thinks that he'll be off to his workshop soon, and that she'll want to bring him a pot of tea to drink while he's there, and she decides that she ought to make herself a pot now, so she'll have a chance to empty it before she's ready to brew Combeferre's. And so she extricates herself from beneath her siblings, assures them she'll be back in but a moment, and goes into the kitchen to set the kettle on the stove.

She stops two steps into the kitchen, everything in her going still at the sight of Combeferre bowed over at the sink, dishes half-done but abandoned as he rubs his thumbs in circles at his temples and presses his fingertips into his brow.

His eyes are squeezed shut in a mockery of a grimace, and so he doesn't see that she's come, doesn't react until she finally cries, "You're _still_ suffering those headaches?"

He drops his hands at once, as shamefaced as if she'd caught him dipping his finger in the honey jar. "It's not so bad."

"Isn't it?" She comes over to him and covers his hands with hers, takes over rubbing away the tension with steady, circling pressure, and the expression of surprise and relief on his face is nearly overwhelming. "It looks agonizing. Do you get these _every_ day?"

He shakes his head, just a little so as not to dislodge her hands. "It's very uncommon."

She thinks his answer is meant to placate her, to reassure her, but it does the opposite, because if he rarely suffered headaches before but now must endure them every day, since she and her siblings came into his home, then she knows what must be at the heart of it. "I'm going to the market to get willow bark," she says decisively.

"That's not--"

" _Honestly_ ," she says, "if you start going on about it being unnecessary again, I may very well scream. What's not necessary is enduring this when there is a solution at hand, and the only thing keeping you from it is a walk to the market and your own stubbornness."

He looks startled at first, and then chagrined. The muscles beneath her fingers shift with his smile. "Very well. You'll allow me to thank you, at least."

She huffs out a sharp breath and drops her hands, all at once very aware of how little space there is between them and how warm his skin is beneath her touch. "If you insist."

He catches her hands like he means to return them to where they had been, but then just holds them in his, looking intently into her eyes as he says, "Éponine, thank you. Truly."

She waits a moment but he doesn't release her, just keeps gazing at her like that, with all his soul bared there in his eyes, so she clears her throat and takes a step back. He doesn't stop her, just lets her hands slide out of his. "You're welcome, I suppose." She scrubs her palms against her skirt, letting the coarse texture of the fabric chase away the memory of his hands holding hers, as soft and gentle as if he'd cradled something precious within them. "It's just a trip to the market, it's no hardship."

His smile deepens, and warms. "I'm not thanking you for the hardship. I'm thanking you for the thought."

That makes even less sense to her, so she puts another step of distance between them, and then says, "I won't be but a half-hour, then," and turns and leaves to go gather up her things, a shawl to wrap her shoulders and her purse to tie at her belt, and then she heads off to the market without giving him an opportunity to protest that it's not necessary _now_ , that it could wait, when clearly it's already waited far longer than it ever should have.

The market's slow this early in the morning, only a few housewives making their way through the stalls. Éponine is able to buy what she needs easily enough, and tucks the bag of willow root into her purse next to her jangling coins, and starts back to the house.

She returns right on the edge of the promised half-hour, and comes inside to find the children up, a place set at her seat around the table with a pair of poached eggs waiting upon them, and, when she peeks her head into the kitchen, a trio of plates and cutlery already washed and drying beside the sink.

"You scoundrel," she says, coming out to where Combeferre and the children are in the living room. "What happened to the house rules?"

Combeferre looks unbearably pleased with himself, but he fights his smug expression down and says with a solemn air, "The children did the washing."

Éponine looks them all over with one raised, skeptical eyebrow. Gavroche would only ever consent to wash dishes under duress, and while Azelma would be easy to persuade to help, she'd need a box to stand on to be able to reach the sink well enough to do anything with it.

" _Did they_ ," she says, dry and deadpan, and Combeferre loses the fight against his smile and grins at her once more.

"I merely supervised."

"You're lucky I pity you," she says, pointing a finger at him as she digs the willow bark out of her purse, "or I'd leave you to your suffering, you hypocrite."

"Éponine," he says after her, as she stalks into the kitchen. "Éponine, don't be ridiculous. Eat your breakfast first, at least." She hears his footsteps across the floor, following her into the kitchen.

"Breakfast will wait," she tells him, as she puts the kettle on the stove and begins to break the pieces of willow bark into a cup.

" _This_ will wait. Your breakfast will grow cold."

She waves a hand at him, dismissing his concerns. But with the cup ready and the kettle on, there really isn't much to do until the water boils, so she relents and leaves the kitchen just long enough to grab the plate and a fork, and carries both back into the kitchen to eat standing up, leaning back against the counter and listening to the kettle begin to rumble as the water starts to heat.

Combeferre is across from her, and leans back against the counter opposite her, looking chagrined. She waits for him to protest, but he seems to think better of it.

She finishes before the water's hot, and as soon as she does Combeferre pushes off of the counter and moves toward her. "Don't even think about it," she says as he begins to reach toward her, and twists to hold her dishes away. "House rules."

"Éponine," he says, like she's being unreasonable but he's trying for patience.

"Either they can be broken, or they can't. Which one is it?" She doesn't quite trust how he'll answer, so she doesn't wait to find out, just moves automatically to the sink and begins to rinse the remains of her eggs from the plate. "I didn't mean for you to think you had to watch the children while I was out," she says instead, to give him something else to focus on. "They would have done fine left to their own devices for a little while."

"It wasn't an obligation," Combeferre says, sounding surprised. "I enjoy them."

She doesn't entirely believe him, certainly not as far as Gavroche is concerned. But she manages to resist the urge to snort her response, at least. "Don't your experiments need your attention?"

This time, he looks surprised, instead of just sounding it. "Not at this particular moment, no. Sometimes the most important part of science is the waiting."

She makes a little sound, almost startled out of her. "That can't really be true, can it? Important, sure, but the _most_ important? Surely the answers, if nothing else, are more important than the time you spent sitting around twiddling your thumbs."

His smile is gentle as he shakes his head. "The answers are only valuable if they're accurate. Inaccurate results are worthless, and a waste of time and effort and materials, as well. And taking answers on faith, without verification and repetition, that can be the most costly of all. There have been scientists who've wasted years or lifetimes of work because they chased a false conclusion that turned out to be based on a rushed or poorly-constructed experiment." He lifts a shoulder in an easy shrug. "I'd rather take a little time now to ensure my work's done right, and well, than let my impatience and eagerness set me back."

She considers that as she dries her plate and silverware, and then, since she's there anyway, dries the others' plates and cutlery as well. "Is that why you're taking all this time tearing your hair out over your, what did you call it? Variable manipulations?"

He doesn't speak for long enough that it draws her attention. She lifts her head from the plate she's drying, a frown already pulling at her brow, and turns to look at him, ready to scold him again for assuming her questions are borne of politeness and not sincerity.

Instead, she finds him almost gaping at her, his jaw hanging loose and his expression astonished. She frowns harder and sets the plate down on the counter with a snap. "What?"

"Nothing," he says, and his gape begins a slow transformation into a brilliant smile. "Yes, that's exactly the reason. And that also is precisely what I called it. You have a very keen memory."

She presses back against the edge of the counter, taken aback by his sudden shift, by the realization that he wasn't staring at her slack-jawed like that because she'd said something outrageous, but because, somehow, she'd made him happy. "It's not that good. And it's not that strange a phrase. What's so impressive about it?"

"It was something I said days offhand," he says, and his voice has gone soft and gentle, but it's not the sort of gentle she's used to from him, the sort you'd use when trying to coax a spooked animal out from hiding and convince it you meant it no harm. This is something entirely different, and it makes him smile, and that's soft, too, but still it overtakes his whole face. Even his eyes look happy, gone soft and warm and bright. "And you paid attention."

She blows out a sharp breath. "I told you--"

"I know. You told me you meant it. And I believed you then, and believe you now. It's still a thing I'm trying to grow accustomed to, is all."

She blinks at him across the distance between them, which somehow seems both too little and too great. "Why's that?"

"Why am I trying to get accustomed to it?"

"Why do you _need_ to get accustomed to it?"

"Ah, well." He gives her another soft smile. This time it's a little sad, a little self-deprecating. "There are a great many people who would rather hear a tomcat yowl than listen to a scientist prattle on about his work."

"You don't prattle," she says at once, impatient, but then snaps her mouth shut because it doesn't make him look at her that way any _less_ , and she doesn't know what to do with that, or the way it makes a strange, warm, full feeling lodge in her chest.

"That's kind of you to say," he says, like he doesn't quite believe her, but then he doesn't argue the point, just adds, "Thank you," and allows silence to fall between them.

It's not awkward, but it's not quite a comfortable silence, either. When the kettle starts rumbling, before it's even whistled, Éponine lifts it from the stove and pours it over a few of the strips of dried willow bark, busying herself with the task. But when she glances back over her shoulder, Combeferre is still watching her, something in his eyes gone soft and quiet and thoughtful. She turns her back quickly, and squares her shoulders, and says without looking at him, "Right. Drink that in a few minutes, when it's had time to steep. And there's plenty more where that came from, so don't be spare with it. It won't do you any good if you don't use it."

"Thank you, Éponine," he says again, and this time she knows better than to look at him. She just nods once, brusque, and bustles out of the kitchen to leave him to it. He'll drink it, or he won't, but there's no point to her hovering and needling him like she would one of the children. He's a grown man, he doesn't need her to hold his hand. And she doesn't know what she'd do with herself if she stayed and caught him looking at her like that again, like she'd somehow surprised him with a cup of a tea and a bit of conversation.

Still, she knows him well enough by now to know how his work will occupy him to the exclusion of all else, so when she brings him something to eat at midday, she brews another cup of the willow bark tea and brings it along, as well.

He doesn't look up when she comes in, just absentmindedly clears a place on his worktable where she'd normally put a pot of tea for him and goes back to measuring careful drops of something into a flask.

It looks like water, in the flask and the pipette both, but when each drop lands it bursts through the flask's contents in a dancing swirl of vibrant purple, like ink drops in water. Éponine meant to leave the food and the tea and retreat without disturbing him, but the sight of it captures her, and she asks without meaning to, "Is that magic?"

Combeferre startles, jolting just enough to agitate the contents of the flask, and the trails of purple swirl through it and then dissipate, leaving the liquid inside just as clear as it had started. He sets the flask and pipette both down and turns to her, smiling like he's the one who needs to apologize.

"No, it's not magic. It's just science."

"Where'd the purple come from? And--" She glances past him, to the flask sitting on the worktable behind him, once again looking as innocuous as a glass of water. "Where'd it _go?_ Did I mess it up? I didn't mean to startle you."

His smile doesn't spread, exactly, but somehow deepens and warms. It reaches all the way up to his eyes, like he really means it. "You didn't mess anything up. It's meant to do that."

"But why--"

This time, his smile does spread, stretching until his teeth are showing, like her fumbling questions have somehow truly delighted him, as ridiculous a notion as that may be. "I would honestly love to teach you about chemical reactions, if that's what you want, I truly would. But it's not a brief lesson and I'm not sure now's the best time for it. Would you mind saving your questions for later, when I can devote the time to answering them thoroughly in the way they deserve?"

She's used to questions like those being more demands than anything else. But Combeferre asks like he's truly curious, and any answer is acceptable. She wonders what he would do if she said, _No, I don't want to wait, tell me now_ , wonders if he would walk away from his chemicals and his workshop and spend the afternoon explaining to her how creating something from nothing like that is anything but magic.

She thinks maybe he would, and it's that more than anything that makes her mean it when she says, "No, of course not. You can tell me over supper, perhaps."

He laughs a little, his face bright and happy. "I'd poison us all if I brought some of these chemicals to the table. But after supper, yes. If you're still interested." His gaze slides sideways and lands on the plate and cup in her hands, and turns chagrined. "Thank you. But that wasn't necessary. You know I don't expect you to wait upon me, don't you?"

_I'm your wife_ , she thinks, and sets both plate and cup down in the space he made for her. _What sort of a one would I be if I didn't make sure you were fed?_ She doesn't think he'd like it if she said that, though, so she says instead, "I didn't do it because you expect it of me. I did it because I didn't think you'd eat at all if I didn't."

He's not grinning, as such, anymore, but there's still laughter in his eyes as he tells her, "I did manage to keep myself fed before you arrived, you know."

" _Did_ you?" she asks, scathing, and he laughs again and gives her another chagrined look.

"Well. Perhaps not quite so well as I have been lately, I'll admit. You'll spoil me, Éponine."

"You've a strange notion of spoiling, if all it takes is a belly that's not empty." She nudges the food and tea towards him. "Eat it, don't let it go cold. And drink that. I'll bring you a pot of proper tea once it's done." She makes it both a promise and a threat. _Once it's done, but not a moment before_.

"Yes, I will," he says, and she thinks it's actually a promise, so she leaves him and refills the kettle and puts it back on the stove, to fulfill her half of the bargain.

In the evening, after supper, Combeferre shoos them all into the sitting room while he does the washing up, ignoring Éponine's protests entirely, and vanishes into his workshop. He returns in moments with two beakers, each half full of what looks like water. He crouches down onto his knees on the rug before them, while they squeeze in tight against one another so they can all see well.

"Watch closely," he says, and adds, "but no touching," with a glance at Gavroche, who pulls a face and rolls his eyes but doesn't argue.

Combeferre pours the contents of one beaker into the other slowly, and swirls the now-full container around for a moment. "Watch," he says, as eager as a child, his eyes bright with it.

Éponine watches. For a moment, she thinks whatever he's meant to do hasn't worked, because it looks for all the world as though she's studying a glass container full of water. But then, tiny specks begin to form in the liquid. They grow into white flakes that drift down like snowflakes falling from the sky, until the bottom of the container is blanketed in them.

It takes effort and concentration to keep Éponine's jaw from dropping at the display. When she glances sidelong at Gavroche, he's watching Combeferre and the beaker sidelong with a narrowed gaze, like he suspects a trick. On her other side, though, Azelma is wide-eyed and rapt, and she reaches a hand forward as she breathes, "It's _magic_."

Combeferre laughs a little -- like he's delighted, not like he's deriding her -- and shifts the container out of reach. "No touching," he reminds her. "This could make you very ill, if it got on your skin or in your mouth. Magic might be harmless, but science often carries somewhat greater risk with it."

Éponine thinks, with a sudden, squeezing sensation around her chest, that it must be nice to be so naive as to be able to think magic harmless. But Combeferre is still smiling at them all, still delighted in the trick he's shown them, so she pushes that reaction down and makes herself smile as well, and ask, "How does it work, then?"

"Have you ever made rock sugar?" he asks, and she could hug him a little bit, for the way he addresses the question to Azelma at least as much as he does her.

Azelma nods eagerly. "Once! I was over at my friend Sidonie's house once and her parents made it for them, and they let me keep a piece for myself. I kept it in my pocket and didn't tell Maman 'cause she'd be mad at me for being selfish." She gives Éponine a sidelong glance, with her brows drawn down and her shoulders pulled up, like even here, even now, she's ashamed of it. Éponine tightens her arm around her shoulders and pulls her in against her, hugging her tight.

"You're very clever," Combeferre tells Azelma, with a smile meant just for her. "You remember, then, I'm sure, how the sugar melted into the water at first, until you couldn't even tell it was different than water straight from the well?"

Azelma nods, rapt. "I remember. We had to stir and stir and stir until it was all gone. Sidonie dipped her finger in when her parents weren't looking and I did too. It looked like water but it was sweet as honey."

"Exactly." Combeferre's smile is brilliant. Éponine holds onto her sister and doesn't dare speak, because she thinks if she does she'll break whatever spell this is that has overtaken them all, Combeferre happy and excited and being so good with Azelma, making her happy too. "You couldn't see the sugar anymore, but it was still there in the water. That's the same thing that's going on with this." He gestured carefully with the beakers, the full and the empty alike. "Only it's nothing so nice as sugar in there. But it works a little faster, so it's more fun to watch, if not nearly so fun to eat."

"Can you do it again?" she asks him eagerly. "I want to watch better this time."

Combeferre's smile is gentle, so it hardly feels like a denial when he says, "It's a little different from the sugar water, after all. If you'd wanted to, you could have put the rock sugar back in the water and done the whole thing all over again. But this--" He raps a fingernail against the side of the beaker. "There's no putting it back into the water, once it's fallen out. If you give me a few days, though, I think I can come up with something you'll like even better."

Azelma seems satisfied by that, so Éponine nudges her up to her feet and ushers her off to go get changed for bed. She chases Gavroche off, too, who looks like he can't decide whether it would be better to hurry off to escape the science lesson, or drag his heels to protest being sent to bed.

They go, Azelma's footsteps pattering down the hall while Gavroche's stomp along behind her. Éponine watches them leave, then risks a sidelong glance at Combeferre only to catch him watching her directly. His face is still warm and open and happy and he's still crouched on a knee, his face tipped up a little to meet her gaze, and she pulls hers away quickly and brushes her hands over her skirt where it lays across her knees. "Is it really as dangerous as you said?"

A twinkle of mischief lights up his eyes. "I might have oversold it a little. Exposure would be very unpleasant, but I wouldn't put them in any true risk. If it had been just for you, I'd have given you a better show, with more dangerous reagents. But chemicals are volatile by their nature, and it won't do them any harm to be given a healthy respect for them."

Éponine eyes the beaker, which is still putting out occasional flakes that drift down to join the rest at the container's base. "A better show than that?" she asks, uncertain.

Combeferre's smile stretches into a grin. "There's a metal that, if exposed to the slightest drop of water, even just to the moisture in the air, will burn and spark and explode in quite a dramatic fashion."

Éponine exhales a sharp, shocked burst of air. "Don't let Gavroche hear you say so."

Combeferre laughs, gentle and warm. "No, I don't intend to. I do like my home in one piece." He rises to his feet in a single, smooth movement, careful with the beaker so the contents scarcely even slosh about. "I should return this the workshop," he says, giving a little gesture with it. "It might not be dangerous, but it wouldn't do our floors any good if it got spilled."

She nods and tucks her feet out of the way so he won't trip over them as he leaves, and once she's given him a decent lead down the hallway, rises to her feet and goes down it herself, to check in on the children and ensure they're getting themselves settled to bed properly.

*

In the morning, she's up before Combeferre is again, though as she pads down the hallway on bare feet, she hears the sound of rustling fabric coming from within his workshop, like he's tossing upon the bed, awake but unhappy about it and trying to keep it from being so.

It doesn't sound like he's making any real strides toward winning that particular battle, so she continues on past the workshop and to the kitchen, to stoke up the coals from last night's fire and set a full kettle on the stove. If he relents and rises soon, he'll need tea just as desperately as she does. And if he's as uncomfortable as it sounds from his tossing and turning, she suspects he'll need the willow bark as much as, if not more than, he needs his usual morning tea.

She scoops tea leaves into a large pot, big enough for the both of them to share, and makes an individual cup for the willow bark. He still hasn't come out from his workshop by the time the water's boiling. When the tea's finished brewing and she still hasn't seen him, she pours a cup from the teapot and brings it along with the willow bark tea, out of the kitchen and down the hall, and attempts to knock on the door with the heel of her foot, though without her sturdy shoes on it comes out as more of a dull thud than a proper knock.

There's a muffled sound of acknowledgment from within, and then more rustling and sounds of movement, and footsteps approaching the door. When the door opens, revealing Combeferre on the other side, his hair tousled and his eyes heavy-lidded, creases from his blankets pressed into his cheeks, she merely holds the cup of willow bark tea out towards him and says, "It sounded like you could use this."

He grimaces and pulls a hand through his hair, chagrined. "I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You didn't." She gestures with the cup, brow raised. "Go on. It won't do you any good to put it off."

He takes the cup dutifully and drinks it, faster than she'd have expected considering how hot it still is. "Have I mentioned lately that you're a marvel?"

She laughs a little, quietly, and leans in against the doorjamb while he drinks. "Not today."

He gestures with his cup towards her, and the cup that she still holds, fingers wrapped around the sides, stealing some of the warmth coming off of it. "Don't let me keep you from yours. It would be a shame to let it go cold."

She just shakes her head. He finishes his tea in a few gulps and then scrubs a hand across his brow. She watches him do it, wondering if it's a sign that the willow bark is helping, or a sign that it's not. When he drops his hand and opens his eyes and catches her watching, she just holds the other cup out to him, wordless.

He lets out a sudden breath, as though she's surprised him. His fingers graze against hers as he reaches to take it from her. "There's a whole pot," she tells him as she pulls her hand back and buries it in the folds of her skirts. "If you want more after that. I made enough for us both." And then, since he's not wrong about the tea going cold and she's been relieved of both of her offerings, she takes the empty cup from him and turns back down the hall, toward the kitchen.

"Éponine?" he calls after her, quiet.

She glances back at him over her shoulder. "Hm?"

He smiles, brilliant even through the haze of sleepiness that softens all his features. "Marvel is an understatement."

She laughs a little, to hide the blush she can feel burning across her cheeks at his praise. "It's just tea," she says, and returns to the kitchen to get some for herself.

She finds Azelma in the kitchen, frozen as though Éponine had caught her in the middle of doing something she oughtn't. But Azelma's not usually the one to misbehave, and as soon as she hears Éponine come into the kitchen she spins about to face her. She doesn't look guilty, she looks angry and she looks _hurt._

"How come you can do it but I can't?" she demands, her hands balling into fists at her sides. "It's not fair!"

Éponine can do little more than stare at her sister, at a loss for what she might have done to upset her so much, and so early in the day. "What's wrong?" she asks as she comes further into the kitchen, and slides around Azelma to reach for the teapot, because she's suspects she's going to need the fortification to face whatever it is that's upset her this morning.

As soon as she grasps the handle of the teapot, she knows. The ceramic hums faintly against her palm, like a low, constant stream of static electricity. She jerks her hand away immediately and stares at it, her heart thumping.

Behind her, Azelma doesn't seem to have noticed her alarm. She stomps a foot, uses it to punctuate her words as she demands, "How come _you_ get to spell things but _I don't_?

Éponine would protest, but the proof of it is undeniable, sitting right there on the kitchen counter, charmed well enough that anyone who knew anything about magic would recognize it. "I didn't mean to," she says on a breath, a paltry defense, and reaches a hand out to press it to the warm side of the ceramic and try to get a feel for what sort of charm she might have laid upon it, without even realizing she was doing so.

It feels like ease, like rest. Like the gentle melody of a lullaby hummed beneath one's breath. And she remembers that she'd been thinking about Combeferre while she'd made the tea, about his headaches and his restlessness. She hadn't meant to charm anything, though, hadn't even realized she'd been doing it. "It was an accident," she says softly, but Azelma is too upset to hear her.

"I _told_ you I'd be careful," she cries, her voice getting louder as her indignation grows. "I _promised_ I would but you don't listen to me."

"Azelma," Éponine hisses, because there are footsteps coming down the hall and it's too early for them to belong to Gavroche. Because Combeferre is awake, he's already had his tea, and if that _isn't_ him, it will be momentarily, and she can't have him hear any of this.

There's nothing for it -- Éponine grabs up the pot of tea and upends it, dumps it out leaves and all, just as Combeferre comes around the corner into the kitchen. He stops there, two steps in, and glances between the two of them, his brow creasing with uncertainty. God only knew what he thought of the picture the two of them made, Azelma's face red and her fists clenched, Éponine no doubt looking harried and desperate.

He lets a moment pass in which none of them move or even speak, and then he clears his throat and comes in another half-step. "What happened to the tea?"

Éponine quickly swallows down the lump in her throat. "It went cold," she says, brusque, and brushes past him and out of the kitchen before he can think to ask how it could go cold so quickly, when the cup she'd brought him mere moments before had been piping hot.

He brings her a cup, later in the morning, and guilt stabs through her so keenly that for a moment she can only stare dumbly at him, at the cup in his hand, held out to her.

His smile doesn't fade when she doesn't move to take it from him, he just sets it on the end table and then takes a seat of his own on the other end of the settee, close enough that it feels comfortable but not so close that they touch. "I made another pot," he tells her, quiet and easy. "It seemed only fair. My tea can't hold a candle to yours, but I hope you'll forgive me my failings."

She takes the cup up, so she can hold it cradled between her hands and let the heat seep into her palms and her fingers. "Why would you say that? Your tea is fine."

His smile is a little lopsided, a little indulgent, like he thinks she's lying to him but willing to allow it. "The cup you made me was quite restorative," he tells her, his voice warm, his eyes warm. "This pot, though." He lifts a shoulder in a dismissive shrug. "It's adequate."

Éponine turns the cup around and around in her hands, watching the steam twist and dance as it rises from the surface. She'd made him the same tea she always made, and he'd been kind and appreciative but he'd never been so effusive about it before. She can't help but think that if he'd found it particularly restorative, it must have been because of the spell she'd laid on that first pot of tea, all unknowing.

She drinks the tea, though it's still on the wrong side of scalding, and tells him, "It's as good as I could have made it," which is true, so long as they weren't accounting for the spell.

Combeferre's smile isn't quite as broad or as deep as it usually is. It doesn't quite reach his eyes and leaves him looking a little bit sad, like he's sure she's humoring him but doesn't want to argue the point. "You're kinder than I deserve," he says, but leaves it at that and gets to his feet. "I left the pot in the kitchen. The rest of it is yours, if you want it. I think if I drank any more tea this morning, I'd start sloshing."

"Thank you." She feels as though she ought to say more, but she can't think of what and she fears that doing so would only encourage him to stay, when she's reeling enough from the morning's events that she'd rather wrestle with them on her own, without his presence there keeping her off balance.

He doesn't seem like he's waiting for anything else from her, though, only smiles again, a little better than the one before, and reaches out to lay a hand on her shoulder and give it a slight squeeze as he passes by her.

That brief touch throws her into as much confusion as having him stay would have. She waits until he's gone down the hall to his workshop, scarcely breathing, and then she turns her head and stares down at her shoulder where his hand had been, where it seems like she can still feel the warmth of his palm through her shift, though she knows that's not possible. It was a casual, unthinking touch, the sort she'd give to Azelma or Gavroche in passing, and it sticks in her mind and whirls about her thoughts endlessly for the rest of the morning, no matter how she tries to distract herself with chores and cooking and the children.

She brings him his tea in the afternoon, because she thinks it would be better to venture in there than to not, and risk him coming out to brew a pot for himself, where he might be inclined to linger and converse. And she's slow and careful and methodical about it, keeping herself present through every step to ensure that this time, there's not a trace of magic in it at all.

She holds her breath while she cracks the workshop door open and slips inside, though she doesn't mean to. Combeferre has his back bent over a collection of beakers and colored liquids on the table, and he doesn't acknowledge her when she enters, too busy swearing beneath his breath to notice her presence.

She's grateful for his distraction, and takes advantage of it to pad quietly forward and place the teapot on a clear space of table at his elbow, where he'll notice it eventually, once his experiments have released their grip on his attention. And then she slips away just as quietly and is careful to shut the door behind herself, as silently as possible.

She breathes again once she's outside with the door shut securely between them and Combeferre safely preoccupied with his work, great gulping breaths that leave her just a little lightheaded and dizzy with the rush of oxygen through her. And she thinks, pleased, that she was successful, that she made it in and out without incident, without provoking an opportunity for him to engage her in conversation or smile at her like he keeps doing, or to reach out and touch her with casual fondness that she doesn't know what to do with.

As the afternoon wears on, though, she realizes that she was wrong, and that she miscalculated completely. Because now her thoughts, which she has only just managed to free from the warmth of his hand on her shoulder and the way he'd reached out to her like he hadn't even had to stop and consider the impulse, now they spin free like an untethered rope, and snag upon the curve of Combeferre's back as he'd bent over his work, and the faint obscenities he'd breathed down upon them when he hadn't known she was there. And despite herself, she catches herself grinning over it, laughing softly beneath her breath in unguarded moments. She spends the rest of the afternoon being frustrated at the betrayal of her own mind, and being charmed despite herself at the unguarded glimpse she had been granted. It makes her like him better than she already did, to know there's someone there behind the smiles and the displays of care and concern, someone who can be frustrated to the point of swearing at inanimate objects, just the same as she can.

After supper, when she's managed to survive the meal with only occasional awkwardness and she's just beginning to wonder how she's meant to keep it up all through the evening, Combeferre excuses himself once he's finished with the dishes, and returns a quarter-hour later dressed nicer than Éponine has seen him since their wedding. He looks almost chagrined as he stands before her, like a young boy preparing himself to beg a parent for clemency, and that in itself makes her frown.

"I thought I might go out for the evening," he says, and he even sounds apologetic. "Before my friends grow concerned at my absence and decide I've come down with the plague. Or worse."

"Worse than the plague?" she asks with a lift of her eyebrows. "I can hardly imagine what that might be."

The corner of his mouth curls, and she abruptly finds it easier to breathe. She likes this look much better than the one braced for censure and prepared to make an apology. "Joly's imagination might surprise you." He starts to say something else, but seems to think better of it. After a moment, he tries again. "Is there anything you need while I'm out?"

"No," she tells him, and smiles. "Thank you. Enjoy yourself, and your friends. And if you see Grantaire there, tell him--"

She breaks off, then, abruptly realizing the enormity of the task of trying to summarize everything that's happened between them these past weeks, since she saw Grantaire last. It can't be done, and if it could, she wouldn't want to say the things she'd have to tell him to Combeferre directly. But Combeferre's gaze is still on her, not pressing her for more but simply waiting and curious. "Tell him I'm well," she says at last.

Combeferre smiles as he shakes open his coat and shrugs into it. "I shall. And I'll try not to disturb you, if I come home late. It's a significant likelihood, when my friends and I get together."

"Oh God, don't worry about that." She waves a hand through the air, dismissing his concern. "The children sleep like bricks, you could drive an elephant through the house and they wouldn't wake. And I-- I'll be fine. I'd rather you light a lamp than break your neck trying to pick your way down the hall in the dark."

Combeferre's smile remains. It's the one that makes the corners of his eyes crease. It's the one she _likes_ , and her face flushes hot a little at that realization. "I'll try all the same," he says, and then, blessedly, he leaves, and she tips her head against the back of the settee and just breathes, slow and careful until she can do so without each breath shuddering through her lungs.

Azelma and Gavroche mostly keep themselves entertained throughout the evening, for which she'd ordinarily be grateful, but now it leaves her with some mending on one of Gavroche's shirts to do, to occupy her hands, and nothing at all to occupy her thoughts. She coaxes Azelma out to sit and converse with her for a time, but once the children have gone to bed and the house has grown dark and quiet around her, there's nothing left to her but the rhythmic glide of her needle through each stitch, and a niggling, half-formed thought about Combeferre and his excursion that only slips through her grasp the more she struggles after it.

And then all at once, the thought crystalizes while her attention is focused elsewhere, on trying to match a tricky seam so that the shirt won't hang strangely on Gavroche's frame, once it's mended. She's halfway through it, brows furrowed and corner of her lip caught between her teeth in concentration as she works at it, when all at once the thought is there and she has to set her mending down and straighten, staring off at nothing at all as the thoughts she's been mulling over finally come together into one troubling realization:

Tonight is the first night that Combeferre has gone to spend time with his friends since they married, and today is the first day that anything Éponine has done to try to help with his headaches has actually succeeded.

It could be coincidence. It could mean nothing at all -- after all, it's been just as long since she's seen Grantaire, because such is the way of friendships sometimes.

Or it could mean _something_.

She turns the thought over and over as the night wears on, like a river tumbling a pebble until all its sharp edges have turned smooth, until it's a thought she can hold and carry with her and live with, if not exactly a comfortable one. There's no resolution to be had with it, though, not tonight, with the children gone to bed and the house empty and quiet around her.

She takes herself to bed eventually, after she's finished the mending and set it aside to get Gavroche to try on in the morning, and it's grown late enough that if Combeferre came home and found her still awake, she wouldn't be able to argue that she was doing anything but waiting up for him.

So she takes herself to bed and ponders it a little while, as she settles in for sleep. And in the morning when she's again the first to rise, she makes tea and is once more careful not to charm it inadvertently. And then she waits, and she observes.

There's a furrow to his brow that hasn't cleared even by his second cup of tea. Twice during breakfast, she catches him pressing his fingers into the back of his neck as though trying to massage tension away, in unguarded moments when he doesn't realize she's watching. By supper, there are lines pinched in around the corner of his mouth, though he doesn't let whatever he's suffering color his interactions with her or the children any.

He excuses himself to bed early, not long after supper, before even the children have started to yawn, and when he goes Éponine's gaze lingers on his back until he's out of sight.

She sends Azelma and Gavroche off, when it's time, and then occupies herself with little tasks throughout their home, tidying and picking up clutter and putting away the dishes that have dried from their supper. And when she does finally go to bed, hours after Combeferre had excused himself, she lies in bed in the dark and listens to the faint but unmistakable sounds of restless tossing and turning coming from the other side of the wall that separates the bedroom from the workshop.

She tries to sleep, but it refuses to claim her, and every sound coming from the workshop seems to be louder than the last, until lying in the dark trying to pretend she doesn't hear it at once seems too ridiculous to bear. She slips out of bed and pulls a robe on over her nightshift, turns up the lamp just enough that it glows low and dim but enough to see by, and then slips out of the bedroom and down the hall.

She raps her knuckles against the door softly, and as soon as she does so, the sounds of restless tossing and turning coming from inside stop abruptly. She waits a moment, but when no answer comes, she sighs and whispers through the door, "Combeferre. Let me in."

There's a moment of silence where she thinks maybe he won't, but then an answer comes, whispered just as softly: "The door's not locked. Watch your step, but you can come in."

She cracks the door open and steps through, just far enough that she can see him on his cot, set up against the wall. The lamplight is dim, but to her dark-adjusted eyes it illuminates him well enough. Enough to make out the way his blankets are tangled all around him, and his hair is a tousled mess, and he looks bleary-eyed and miserable despite the smile he musters for her.

"Is everything all right?" he asks her, sitting up and pushing a hand through his hair, though the gesture does little to tame it. "Do you need something?"

She stares at him a moment longer, taken aback that he's so clearly wretched and yet still acting as though his only concern is for her. "Combeferre," she says at length, on a sigh. "Come to bed."

He goes very, very still. His eyes are shadowed in the flickering lamplight, but she can still feel his gaze on her, heavy and intent. "You're very kind," he says at last, his words slow and careful like he's testing out each one to be sure they won't betray him. "But that's not necessary."

"Isn't it?" She comes forward, then, closing the distance between them with long strides and dropping down onto the cot beside him. He watches her sidelong, and she thinks he looks wary, but it's at least better than standing towering over him feeling like an angel descended from upon high to proclaim a message. "You haven't slept well since I've come here. You can't tell me that's coincidence."

"I told you, I slept in here sometimes even before."

"Sometimes, perhaps. But not every night, I'd wager. Did you get headaches from it before, too?"

"They're not that bad."

"They are," she says, and puts steel into her voice. "Lie to yourself, if you like, but don't lie to me. They're bad, and they're getting worse, and there's a simple solution at hand."

"Éponine," he says, in the careful tone of voice of someone who's about to let you down and is trying to gentle the blow.

She blows a sharp breath of air out between her teeth. " _You said_. The day we wed, the day I moved in, when you said you would sleep here and I asked for how long. Do you remember what you said?"

He brings a hand up to cover his face. "Éponine." This time, he sounds pained.

"You said, as long as I want. You said _until I told you otherwise_. But here I am, asking you to come, telling you I want it so, and you won't hear me."

"Do _you_ remember?" he asks softly, muffled through his fingers. "Do you remember how terrified you were of the thought of sharing a bed? You looked as though you'd bolt if I so much as glanced your way too eagerly. It would take a great deal more than a headache to make me do anything that would risk putting you in such a situation again."

"I know you better now," she says simply. "I'm not afraid of you."

That, at least, makes him smile, a quick, startled flash of a thing that leaves his whole face hopeful and bright, leaves him twisted to look at her like he's all at once amazed just to find himself sitting there next to her. "I am glad to hear that," he ventures, cautious.

She sighs and reaches out between them to catch both of his hands between hers. "Come to bed, Combeferre," she says, quiet and intent. "That is what I want from you right now."

He looks torn, yearning and reluctant at once, but he doesn't move. So Éponine gets to her feet, keeping his hands in hers, and tugs lightly until he stands as well. His shoulders are bent with either exhaustion or reluctance, and on his feet he looks even more weary and run-down than he had sitting up in bed. It makes her even more certain of her decision.

She drops one hand but threads the fingers of the other through his, clasping them together, and leads him out of the workshop and down the hall to the bedroom. He follows after her in a shuffle, rubbing his freed hand over his eyes.

In the bedroom, she swings the door shut behind him. The sound of it latching makes him turn and glance back at it over his shoulder, and then at her. His brows are furrowed and his expression guarded, like he's waiting for her to change her mind now, waiting for her to realize her mistake and send him back to his uncomfortable cot and his persistent headaches.

She pretends not to notice, and only slips her robe off and hangs it up. Behind her, he takes a single, swift breath, and she pretends not to notice that, either. It's the middle of the night. He's exhausted and half asleep. It could mean anything, and she's not about to speculate.

He's seen her in less than her nightshift before, in any case. It was probably just a yawn.

She turns back to him, her shoulders squared and pulled back so as not to betray any awkwardness at suddenly sharing this space with him, when she's grown used to having it to herself all this while. "Which side do you prefer?" she asks him.

He blinks at her for a moment, his expression still soft and unguarded with sleep. "I honestly don't care either way."

"I'll take the right, then," she says, decisive because one of them has to be. It's the side she's been using the most lately, anyway, when she gets in and out of bed.

There's nothing for it but to climb into bed. One of them has to, and judging by the way Combeferre is hesitating by the doorway and watching her like he's secretly sure she's lost her mind but will regain it at any moment and send him right back out of the bedroom again, she doesn't think it'll ever be him.

It's not a wide bed, even for one person, but she's still grown used to allowing herself to take up as much of it as she likes. Now, she folds back the blankets and slides underneath, and is careful to keep to her side of the bed, aligned carefully with the edge of the mattress and cautious as she makes sure she hasn't claimed more than her fair share of the blankets. She curls on her side with her back towards the middle of the bed, and shuts her eyes, and pretends she's not keenly aware of every whisper of movement coming from Combeferre on the other side of the room.

His bare feet make barely a sound as he crosses over to the other side of the bed. There he seems to hesitate, long moments in which there's no sound and no movement. Then there's a wash of cold air beneath the blanket as he lifts it and slides under it as well, and it takes all the strength of will that Éponine has not to flinch at it, not to show any reaction at all.

The blankets that Combeferre has had on the bed are sufficient for one. Now, though, with two of them to cover, there's not enough width to drape down between them, not if they both mean to stay covered throughout the night. It would be easier, Éponine thinks, if there was, easier to preserve the illusion of separation between them. Instead, the blanket stretches across the distance between them, and there's enough of it, but only just. Éponine keeps her eyes shut and maintains careful control of her breathing, but she is achingly aware of the air at her back, of the fact that if she moved or rolled even slightly they'd be touching, of how her back ought to feel cold without the blanket against it but instead it's slowly becoming the warmest part of her, because of the heat coming off of Combeferre and warming the space between them.

He moves a little as he settles, adjusting his position or the blankets over them. She doesn't respond, just keeps her eyes shut and her breathing steady, though it takes everything in her not to allow her breath to fray and go uneven when he shifts and reaches over to her, to adjust the blanket and give her a little more of it.

"Good night, Éponine," he says at length, breathed into the darkened room so softly that she can't be sure if he knows she's still awake or if he only dared say it because he thought she was asleep.

Her mouth feels as though it's filled with dust, and she couldn't respond if she wanted to. She blinks her eyes open and stares at the wall. In the darkness, every little sound of Combeferre breathing and shifting on the other side of the bed seems magnified until it fills the room.

His breathing goes deep and even eventually, the way she'd tried to force her own to be, but she thinks for him, it's genuine. _Just sleep_ , she scolds herself. _Just stop thinking about him there and sleep_.

But her mind is recalcitrant and her thoughts betray her, spinning in an endless loop long into the night, until she thinks she won't sleep at all.

She must eventually, because the next thing she's aware of is faint morning light filling the room and a warm pressure at her back. She wakes all at once, with her heart hammering, but holds perfectly still and tries to control her breathing.

It takes her a moment to calm herself, to grow tentatively accustomed to the touch at her back that she thinks must be Combeferre's shoulder, rolled across the space between them as he slept. She could wake him and reclaim the space, but she doesn't think she knows how to look at him right now, when they've just passed a night with only inches between them. She could rise and cede the space to him entirely, but it's so early, and she was awake so late. Her eyes feel filled with grit and the thought of rising now makes every muscle ache in protest.

She's still debating her options when Combeferre's breathing shifts behind her, almost a hitch but not quite, and he shifts. At first, his shoulder presses more firmly against her, a warm stripe all along her back, and she shuts her eyes and forces herself to neither flinch away nor roll in towards that warmth and let it soak into her.

And then he must wake enough to realize himself, because he pulls away all at once and breathes a soft, "Shit," into the silence of the room.

Cold air washes over her back, flooding under the disturbed blankets. She represses a shiver, and forces down the low, inarticulate sound of protest that tries to rise in her. Still, she hears Combeferre whisper, "Sorry. Sorry," though she still doesn't think she's given him any reason to suspect she's awake.

The blankets shift above her and she would protest after all, then, except that she realizes almost immediately that he's pulling them _up_ , not off. Her chest feels too tight to breathe as he tucks the blankets in around her, very carefully folding them around her shoulders to keep all the heat in. And then there's a moment where he doesn't move, but doesn't leave, and Éponine can hardly bear the curiosity of what he's doing, what he's thinking.

A feather touch lands on her head, soft as a whisper, and brushes back a strand of hair that had fallen across her face as she slept. Then the touch pulls away abruptly and Combeferre breathes something short and cut-off that she can't make out, even in the perfect silence of the room.

His footsteps whisper across the floor, away from the bed. The door creaks open and closed again. The band around Éponine's chest loosens. She rolls over onto her back and stares up at the ceiling. She can breathe again, but her pulse isn't any slower. She can feel her heart thudding against her ribs.

She should get up. She should go out and get started on the morning. But Combeferre is out there and she's not yet sure what to say to him. She's not sure how to look him in the eye and hold a normal conversation and pretend she's not thinking about the tender way he'd brushed her hair back while he thought she was asleep.

She wouldn't have said it was possible with her pulse racing and her thoughts reeling, but she drifts back to sleep. When she wakes the second time, the light is brighter, the morning later, and she feels infinitely more capable of facing the day, and the world beyond the bedroom door.

Still, she's chagrined to come out of the bedroom and smell the scents of breakfast filling the house. She makes her way to the kitchen and leans a shoulder in the doorway, watching as Combeferre jumps from pan to counter to skillet to sink. He hasn't noticed her there yet, hasn't realized he's being observed, and she's grateful for the unexpected opportunity to watch him like this, all his guard down.

Whatever he's cooking, it smells wonderful, and looks far more complicated than anything she's put together for them. He stirs the skillet, then steals a piece of its contents, snatching it from the hot pan with his fingers and eats it, then stares off into the far distance with a thoughtful look before erupting into motion once more, pulling out more spices and sprinkling some judiciously across the pan.

There's a kettle heating on the back of the stove as well, and when it starts to rumble, moments before it'll turn to a shriek, Combeferre snatches it up and turns to pour it into one of his larger teapots. That movement turns him towards the doorway, though, and he freezes in the middle of his turn as his gaze lights upon Éponine.

He's the one who's been caught out in an unguarded moment, and yet for some reason she's the one who feels abruptly as though she's been pinned in place by the point of his gaze. She can't breathe -- and then his face, blank with surprise, breaks into a smile, and she draws a huge gulp of air into her lungs and lets it out again slowly.

"You're just in time," he says, and finishes pouring the water into the teapot before setting the kettle aside and focusing his attention upon her. "The tea'll be ready soon. And breakfast, too. If you're hungry."

There's still awkwardness and uncertainty brewing in her belly, and the memory of his warmth against her back making the hairs all along her spine prickle and stand on end. But she smiles and says, "I am," quietly, and it makes a smile break across Combeferre's face like sunlight. "What have you made for us? It seems like an awful lot of trouble."

"It isn't, really," he says, and then amends, "It's no trouble. I was up early, anyway, and needed something to do with myself."

A thread of trepidation slides through her, cooling off some of her happiness and making her frown. "Did you not sleep well, still?"

"No, not at all. Quite the opposite, in fact." He smiles again, and it warms her. "I slept very well. It's why I woke so early." He takes a careful breath and turns to face her squarely, says, "About that, actually--"

Now, she scowls. "Don't."

It takes him aback, leaves him blinking at her in silence for a few seconds. "I'm sorry?"

She huffs out a breath and comes into the kitchen. "You're going to try to tell me some reason why you should go back to that horrible cot. Don't." He looks like he's still going to protest, so she cuts him off before he can try. "How's your head this morning?"

He snaps his mouth shut and looks chagrined. "It's fine," he says, like he'd rather not admit to it. "It's great."

She nods once. "Good. Can I help you with that?" She tips her head toward the stove, and the dishes still sizzling away merrily on it.

"Thank you, but no." His smile is back, if not quite as warm as it had been. It's a start, anyway. "It's nearly done."

She nods acceptance and moves further into the kitchen, to get plates and silverware and begin setting the table for the meal. Combeferre makes a brief, aborted sound of protest when he realizes what she's about, but she ignores it and he says nothing else.

When she's finished, she comes back into the kitchen to see if there's anything else she can do, and is forestalled by Combeferre just inside the doorway, holding out a cup of steaming tea to her.

She knows it's at least half meant to forestall her and keep her from finding another task to occupy herself with, but it is tea, after all. So she stops instead of brushing past him, and accepts it with a murmured, "Thank you," and presses her fingers to the warmth of the porcelain as she sips, and pretends she doesn't see from the corners of her vision how Combeferre watches her do it, like he's delighted by the simple enjoyment she's taking in a good cup of tea to start off the morning.

"I'll wake the children," she says when she can't manufacture any more excuses not to catch his gaze, when the warmth of standing there in the kitchen doorway with him has wrapped around her heart and made it ache in her chest.

He doesn't stop her, only nods agreement and shifts his weight off of the doorframe, and moves back into the kitchen like its easy, when she feels as though her feet have been mired in treacle and can't quite figure out how to free herself from the moment they've caught between them.

It's easier with his back turned, with his attention focused once again upon the stove. She turns, but takes her tea with her down the hall to the children's room.

It's the work of a few moments to wake Azelma, though Gavroche takes somewhat more time to coax up and out of bed. The promise of food does it at last, though, and she leaves them to dress for the morning with admonishments that if they aren't at the table for breakfast, she and Combeferre will eat it all without them.

It's a hollow threat. Combeferre made more food than even the four of them could eat in one meal, much less the two of them by themselves. But the children know her well enough to know it is, anyway, and to hurry at dressing all the same.

After they've eaten, while Combeferre is still lingering at the kitchen table fielding questions about his experiments, Éponine takes the opportunity to rise and start gathering everyone's dishes and carrying them to the kitchen. She's just about finished when she turns back to get the last of them only to find Combeferre making his way into the kitchen, already laden down with them.

She takes the dishes from his hands and sets them on the counter beside the others, then tells him, "Thank you."

He smiles and starts to make an aborted gesture, then tucks his hands into his pockets instead. "I'll dry," he offers.

"You will not."

He seems taken aback, but recovers after only a moment. "By all means, if you'd rather I wash, I'd be happy to--"

She spins on her heel to face him, arms folded across her chest. "Do the house rules apply only to me, then?"

He starts to say something, then stops, blinking at her.

"You cooked. You'll have no hand in cleaning up. It's your own rule, the least you can do is abide by it."

His brows draw together with consternation. "But I made a mess. I'd have made something that used fewer dishes if I'd thought you were going to take it all on yourself."

"Yes, well. Rules are rules." She waves her hands at him, shooing him back into the kitchen's doorway, and then through it. "Go on, go make sure Gavroche isn't getting into your chemicals and going to blow us all up, or something. I won't be but a few minutes."

He goes, if reluctantly, and with a look of chagrin pinching his expression, and Éponine sets herself to the task of washing up. She isn't wrong -- she has long years of practice at the chore, and it doesn't take her more than ten minutes to have everything washed and dried and returned to its rightful place in the kitchen. She washes down the counters, too, for good measure, and wipes some dust from the cabinets, and then finally relents and goes out to join the others.

Combeferre has Azelma's rapt attention, and seems to be describing some aspect of his work to her -- Éponine can't make sense of whatever it is he's saying about reagents and distillation and exothermic whatever, not when she's missed the first half of the explanation, but Azelma is kneeling on the couch beside him, leaning forward eagerly like she's a fish caught on a line, and every word he speaks is reeling her in.

Éponine lingers at the edge of the room, leaning her shoulder against the wall and watching them together, the way Combeferre gestures animatedly when he answers one of Azelma's questions, and the way her whole face lights up with each explanation. She doesn't want to interrupt this, not when Azelma's so happy, and they're getting on so well.

Combeferre notices her eventually, casting a quick glance toward the kitchen that catches on her instead. The corners of his eyes crease with a smile, though he doesn't even hesitate in the answer to a question that he's giving Azelma. She smiles back at him and, like that's all he needed, he turns the whole of his attention back onto Azelma.

A few moments and several questions later, Combeferre holds up a hand as Azelma starts to pepper him with another series of questions, and laughs like he's truly having the time of his life. "You ask such good questions," he says, and he sounds sincere rather than patronizing. "But I can't keep you to myself all day, it's not fair to your brother and sister. Why don't you write down all the questions you think of for the rest of the day, and tomorrow I'll look it over with you and answer all of them?"

Azelma seems disappointed, but only for a moment. Then she scrambles up to her feet and runs down the hallway, to return almost at once with a pen and a pot of ink and a sheet of parchment. She hurls herself down onto her stomach in the middle of the rug and starts writing like she means to fill the whole page.

Éponine comes forward, then, and takes a seat on the edge of the settee. She's exquisitely aware of the inches that separate them, that somehow feel like a mile and also like nothing at all. She can feel the warmth coming off of him, and she keeps her gaze focused on her sister, ruthlessly turns her thoughts away from the morning, and the incredible warmth of his skin against hers when she'd woken. "You're very kind to her," she says softly, without looking at him.

He's quiet for a moment, and when he speaks, he sounds startled. "If anyone's being kind between the two of us, it's her in indulging me."

Éponine would protest, would snap at him about false modesty. But she remembers some of the conversations they've had, remembers the resigned look in his eyes when he'd told her that most people would rather hear a tomcat yowl than a scientist discuss his work, and she bites the words back before they can loose themselves from her tongue.

"She's very clever," Combeferre says, his voice warm and full of joy.

"Yes, she is." His praise makes Éponine's heart feel full and heavy. Azelma has always been wickedly smart, but their parents cared little for her intelligence. It was always her knack for magic that they'd encouraged in her, or barring that, her looks. Éponine could weep now, to see the way she's blossomed even just from a few weeks beneath the attention of someone who values what she thinks, not just what she can do. "You've been good for her, I think."

If Combeferre was startled before, now he seems stunned, blinking quickly at Éponine and his whole face transformed with surprise. She waits, uncertain what his expression means, and he goes through a series of them before he settles at last on a fierce, glowing sort of happiness. "I hope that's true."

Rather than arguing the point with him, Éponine lets the comment lie, and it's not long before Combeferre takes himself off to his workshop to start his work for the day.

Later in the morning, Éponine brings him a pot of tea, as has become her custom. When he scarcely responds to her knock at the door, she lets herself in, then leans in the doorway watching him, searching for any sign of the headache that's plagued him for so long.

He seems focused, intent upon his beakers and his solutions, but in the few moments she watches him she doesn't see him rub at his head the way he has been. It makes her breathe easier, and makes her mind less the fog of sleepiness that's crowding at the edges of her mind.

She leaves him with the pot of tea at his elbow, where he'll find it when he's ready for it. When she brings him lunch later, he's just as intent upon his work, his back hunched forward in a way that makes her wince with sympathy. He mutters something she can't make sense of beneath his breath, then bites off an oath and blows air through his teeth.

She clears her throat from the doorway so she won't startle him, then says, "It sounds like I'm just in time. Why don't you eat something, and give yourself a few minutes away? You've been at it all morning."

He twists and looks at her like he can't fathom how she got there, despite the door standing wide open just behind her. He shakes his head like a dazed man shaking off a stupor, and then seems to focus on her a little better. "I should eat, you're right," he concedes. "This isn't in a place where I can step away from it, though, even for a few moments."

She shrugs with one shoulder and passes the plate over to him. "Eat while you work, then. Nothing ever got solved on an empty stomach."

"Thank you, Éponine," he says, and she nods her acknowledgment and shuts the door behind herself on her way out.

He comes out to the kitchen while she's in the middle of cooking their supper, plate in one hand and teapot in the other. Only half his lunch is gone, and the half that remains has been torn apart and scrambled up as though he spent more time fiddling and fidgeting with it than he did eating. "I don't suppose you'd care for some old tea?" he asks her, gesturing with the pot with a wry, crooked smile. "I lost track of time, and the next thing I knew, the day was gone and the tea was cold. It seems a shame to waste it, but..."

"There's no sense in choking down bitter tea. Give it here, I'll make us fresh."

He seems reluctant, hesitating when she reaches a hand out for the teapot, and a frown gathering on his brow.

"Oh for Heaven's sake." She throws her hands up. "Is this because I'm cooking? I promise you, I am more than capable of stirring a pot and setting a kettle on the stove at the same time."

"It's not that," he says, and sets the pot on the counter as though continuing to hold onto it is some sort of admission of guilt. "It's just, I was thinking-- That is-- Would you mind terribly if I went to another meeting tonight?"

She blinks at him for a moment. "Why would I mind?"

Combeferre makes a gesture that could mean anything. "I find it's best not to assume, generally. About most things."

She blows out a sharp breath. "You don't need my permission to go pursue your interests, or to spend time with your friends."

He smiles a little, a soft, crooked thing that makes warmth bloom in her chest. "No, I know. I wasn't seeking permission, only your input."

"Very well, then, here it is." She leaves the stove to come stand before him. "Do you want to go to the meeting?"

"I believe it would be beneficial. My work has been frustrating me particularly today, and oftentimes in these situations I find it helpful to step away and get a chance to clear my mind."

"Combeferre." She sighs, but smiles to gentle the sting of it. "Do you _want_ to go to the meeting?"

He takes a deep breath, like this of all things somehow requires strength. "Yes," he says. "I would like to see them."

She takes both his hands in hers and squeezes them. "Then go." She leans in and kisses his cheek, and only realizes what she's done at the shock of coarse stubble against her lips.

For a moment she's frozen there, on her toes with his hands warm in hers and a muscle quivering in his cheek, no space at all between them. Then she steps back and releases his hands and there's air between them again, and it's like the world is a music box that's been wound up, and it all springs into motion once more.

Combeferre is looking at her, not staring, just looking, and her stomach wraps itself into a knot tied so tight that she feels as though she might be ill. He looks as though he might say something and she can't bear it, so before he can make a sound, she turns back to the stove and fusses about with stirring the pots. "Go have a good time with your friends," she says to him over her shoulder, and tries to keep her voice lighter and unaffected. "We can take care of ourselves for an evening."

He smiles softly, murmurs, "I have no doubt you can," like it's somehow something wonderful, and then -- thank God -- leaves.

She hears him bid good-bye to the children, and then his footsteps across the floor, and the door opening and then shutting again. Only then does she let out a heavy breath and go over to drop down into a chair at the table. She leans her head onto her arms, creating a small space of darkness within them, and allows herself to just stay like that for a few moments while things cook on the stove.

She hides in the circle of her arms, in an agony of mortification, until her ragged breath grows a little steadier. Her face still feels aflame, but there's nothing to be done about that. Dinner still needs her attention, and the children, and if there's one thing she's good at, it's swallowing down her own turmoil to do what needs doing for them.

The evening passes uneventfully, or at least as uneventfully as can be expected amongst siblings. Once Azelma and Gavroche are in bed and the house is her own, she tries to keep herself busy with tasks around the house, but inevitably finds herself standing frozen with a rag forgotten in her hands and the shelves half dusted while her thoughts swing like a pendulum back to that moment in the kitchen, to the warmth and roughness of his cheek, the way a muscle had twitched there, the unfathomable mystery of what that twitch had meant. Had he been as surprised by her impulsiveness as she herself had been? He hadn't shown it, if he had. And if he had welcomed it, he'd given no indication of that, either. Nor if he'd disliked it, and she thinks if she could only ask him -- if asking hadn't been something too horrifying and terrifying to even consider -- that knowing might finally set her mind at ease and allow her thoughts to turn to something, anything, else.

She hasn't quite managed to figure out how to ask the question without wanting to crawl under the floorboards and die by the time Combeferre returns home. The sound of his key in the lock makes her startle, but by the time he's gotten it unlocked and the door open, she's managed to take a calming breath and pick up the book whose spread pages she's mostly been ignoring for the past half-hour, and at least feign a picture of idle ease. She calls out to him softly, so as not to wake the children, "How was your meeting?"

There's a swift, whispered oath and the sudden clatter of keys hitting the floor, and Combeferre breathes, "God in heaven, you scared half the life from me. You weren't waiting up for me, were you? I'd have come home earlier if I'd have known, the meeting disbanded hours ago but Feuilly and I got into a gripping discussion that I couldn't wrest myself away from."

"Don't be ridiculous," she says, and turns a page, though she's entirely lost track of the story at this point. "You needed the time with your friends. I'm glad you didn't cut it short on my account." She adds, because she knows him well enough by now to know that he won't miss the omission, if she leaves his concerns unaddressed: "I couldn't sleep." It's not even a lie. Or at least not really.

She doesn't know him well enough, though, because instead of leaving her to the tumult of her thoughts, instead he comes towards her, his expression creasing with concern. "Is something the matter?"

She dredges up a smile. "Not at all. I'm quite fine." That _is_ a lie, but there's nothing to be done for it. She waves a hand, and hopes it comes across carefree and dismissive. "These things happen sometimes."

Hardly ever to her, though. But with the separate beds they've been keeping, he wouldn't know that, and she's profoundly grateful for his ignorance.

"Would you like me to keep you company until you can sleep?"

He's kinder than she deserves, and if he keeps it up she thinks she might scream. "There's hardly any call for both of us to be wrecks in the morning, especially when you've already been sleeping so poorly. Go on," she tells him, and smiles as she does so. "You look half dead on your feet already. I've got my book for company, and I'll be along once exhaustion catches up with me."

He takes that for what it's worth, at least, and nods assent. "I'll leave you to your book, then," he says, with a smile to match hers, and as he passes by the settee towards the bedroom, his hand drops down to cover hers where it lies on the upholstered arm. He gives her hand a brief squeeze, but continues on moving down the hall before she can even begin to decipher what that touch might mean.

She sits with the book open on her lap, her eyes on the page but unseeing, her thoughts in a whirl, for what feels like hours. At length, though, she's so exhausted she feels nauseous with it, and there's nothing to be done but to set the book aside and walk down the hall to the bedroom.

The lamps are out, inside, and all she can make out from the dim light filtering in through the windows is the dark shapes of the furniture in the room, their edges limned in starlight. In the middle of the room, in the bed, she can make out Combeferre's form beneath the blankets and a highlighted sliver of the edge of his cheek, but only that.

She makes her way over to the bed with careful, silent steps, and eases back the edge of the blanket so she can slip underneath without disturbing him. Even so, as soon as she starts to ease her weight onto the bed, the steady rhythm of Combeferre's breathing shifts, and the blankets rustle as he moves beneath them.

"Do you have enough room?" he asks, his words hushed, his voice soft and hazy with sleep.

"I'm fine," she says, and abandons care to get into bed. She's already woken him; the best thing she can do for him now is to get settled as quickly as possible, so he can get back to sleep.

Still, even once she's in bed and lying down, he shifts behind her. "Here," he says, sounding less asleep, not more, and shifts the blankets over her so she's got more of them. She's almost certain she's got more than her fair share.

"Combeferre, I'm fine," she whispers into the darkness between them. "Go back to sleep."

"I'm not used to sharing a bed yet," he says apologetically. "I'll steal all the covers if you let me, and three-quarters of the mattress if given half the chance. Just kick me over if I get greedy."

She lets out a sharp huff of laughter, though it's more shock than amusement, that he would call himself greedy while piling all the bedclothes on top of her. "I'm sure we'll manage. Go back to sleep, Combeferre, I didn't mean to wake you."

"I don't mind," he says, but he must be listening to her, because his words are getting heavy and starting to drag. He settles down a little deeper in the bed beside her. "You, too," he murmurs, already sounding more than half asleep. "You need it."

She could protest that he needs it more, that he's the one with experiments that need him attentive and focused, and especially when he's already had weeks of poor sleep to start with. But he'd only stay awake later just to debate the point with her, so she bites her tongue and says only, "Yes. I'll sleep, too," and then shuts her eyes just in case he's stubborn enough to make sure she does as she's said.

*

After everything, she expects sleep to be elusive, but she hardly remembers anything between shutting her eyes and opening them again to the thin light of pre-dawn. Combeferre's still asleep beside her, his breathing slow and even, and he's reached out for her again in the night. She woke up facing him, lying the same way she fell asleep and with her arm pillowed under her head, and at some point while they slept he's reached out and curled his hand loosely around her arm, like he feared she might leave in the middle of the night, or maybe just like he was looking for some sort of assurance that she was there.

She swallows down the lump in her throat that forms as she looks at where he's touching her, where his fingers lie warm and gentle against her skin. She doesn't think she could bear it if he woke now, if she had to meet his gaze across the scant inches that separate them and somehow not crumble to pieces over how close he is and how nice it felt to wake up like this and how she's sure she'll feel the warm imprint of his hand on her arm lingering there for the rest of the day.

She shuts her eyes and tries to find her strength, that quiet, sure place in her mind that has always let her do what needs to be done no matter how difficult or unpleasant it might be. Even that feels chaotic now, thrown into a tumult, and so there's nothing for it but to slide her arm out from beneath Combeferre's hand and slide from the bed and try to fake certainty in its absence. She pulls her shoulders back as she draws her robe around herself, and keeps her spine straight as she leaves the bedroom, even as her thoughts whirl like a tempest.

He doesn't wake as she leaves, which is a blessed relief. Once she's eased the bedroom door shut behind herself, she can breathe again, and she sucks in great, heaving breaths of air. She scrubs her hands over her face and just breathes into her palms for a moment, before she straightens and pulls her fingers through her hair, and continues down along the hall, feeling at least a little steadier than she had a moment before.

She scarcely has enough time to get the tea brewing before she hears him stirring in the bedroom, and then making his way out into the rest of the house. It's at least enough of a warning that she has time to steel herself, so she doesn't flinch when he shuffles into the kitchen and wishes her a bleary good morning.

She turns from setting up their cups and sugar bowl and pitcher of milk, and doesn't mean to but finds herself with her back against the counter, her fingers wrapped around its edge as though its solidity can somehow give her the strength to face him. "You might have slept longer," she tells him quietly. "You had a late night."

He gives her an amused look. "No later than yours, and you were up before I was."

She swallows against the thickness in her throat. "Not for very long."

"Even so." He moves towards her, and her heart leaps into her throat with something that could as easily be fear as anticipation, before she realizes he's reaching past her, for the teapot.

She moves aside and then eyes him warily, but he doesn't make any comment about her ceding the space to him, when ordinarily she'd fight him tooth and nail before she'd let him take over something she's already set herself to.

When he turns back, he has both cups in his hands, and he hands hers to her without a word. She curls her fingers around the warm porcelain and sips.

They drink in silence together for a few moments, and Combeferre looks perfectly at ease with their quiet companionship, though Éponine's heart is racing like it means to beat its way straight out of her chest.

Because she's watching him the way a mouse watches a hawk, because every fiber of her being is intensely focused on and aware of him, she notices the way he frowns over his tea, and sighs quietly before he takes a sip, and the way his grip on his cup is tight enough to make his fingertips go pale and bloodless, and every so often the corner of his mouth twitches into an expression that doesn't look happy at all.

"Combeferre," she says on a breath, startled, and his gaze flies up to hers, looking equally surprised to have the silence broken. "What's wrong?"

The expression that passes across his face is there and gone in an instant, but she thinks it's chagrin. "Oh-- Nothing." He smiles, but she doesn't quite believe it. "Nothing's wrong."

" _Combeferre._ " She sighs and sets her tea down on the counter behind her, then comes towards him. "Is it the headaches? Are they still troubling you?"

He looks so startled by the suggestion that she does believe him when he says, "No, not at all. Not since--"

He breaks off, and she thinks she knows what was meant to fill the rest of that sentence, what he doesn't want to say because he'd apparently rather suffer a thousand torments than feel as though he's imposing upon her. _Not since I've been sleeping in my own bed again._

"Then what's wrong?"

This time, the expression on his face is frustration, and it lingers much longer than chagrin did. He shifts his cup from one hand to the other, and waves the free one in a sharp, dismissive gesture. "It's nothing, truly it is. It's only my work. Everything's been going wrong on me these past few days, it seems, but such is the way of science, sometimes." This time, the smile that he gives her is smaller and a little rueful, but she believes it more. "I'm sorry, I hadn't meant for my frustrations to spill out of the workshop. Usually I'm better at remembering to keep it where it rightfully belongs."

"For heaven's sake," she says. "You don't need to apologize for how you feel. You shouldn't. I'm only concerned for you, that's all."

She's come close enough now that he can reach out to her and take her hand in his. He gives it a squeeze. "I don't mean to worry you. It truly is just a part of the work. I'll have it sorted out soon enough, I'm sure. It's only that the sorting part is somewhat aggravating, while I'm doing it."

She frowns at him for a moment and pointedly doesn't think about the warmth of his hand on hers, or the scratch of his calluses against her skin. "Are we going to have to have this conversation _again?_ I told you, didn't I? You can talk to me about your work, whether it's going poorly or well. I'm interested."

He pulls a face and releases her hands, though he doesn't put any greater distance between them than that, so it doesn't feel like the rejection that it might have, otherwise. "Nobody likes listening to complaining, Éponine."

She frowns and catches his hand in hers and squeezes it, and where his had been reassurance, hers is a warning. "You're going to have more than complaints to listen to if you don't start taking me at my word."

"Éponine," he says, softly but with a gentle censure in it. "I do take you at your word, please believe me. And any time you want to ask me about my work, I'll be happy to discuss it. But there are going to be times that I don't bring it up myself, and it's not because I think you're not interested in discussing it, but because _I'm_ not." The smile he gives her is wan and looks, abruptly, exhausted. "Sometimes, all I want is five minutes in which to think about anything _but_ how the work is frustrating me. So please, don't take silence on my end as something meant to be for your benefit. If it's for anyone's, it's mine."

Frustration burns in her, at her helplessness to do anything to make this better for him. But she can't fault him for it, so she swallows it down and gropes for her cup of tea, takes a swift, scalding gulp of it, and then brushes past him to begin to cook breakfast.

It's a minor miracle that he doesn't try to stop her and insist she doesn't need to, she thinks. He does come around to her side and settles in there to help her, and she slants him a sidelong, considering glance, but doesn't say anything to stop him. If distance from his work is what he needs, then the least she can do is help give it to him.

Later, when they've eaten together and done the washing together and Combeferre has finally taken himself off to face his experiments, Éponine stands in the kitchen making a pot of tea for him, as has become her custom, and worries about the tension she's watched carve lines onto his face all morning.

She hates the feeling of uselessness and futility, the thought that he's struggling and unhappy with something and there's nothing she can do to make it easier. She doesn't understand his work well enough to know how to help him, and if her trying to learn more about it only makes it more upsetting to him, then what does that leave her with?

Not much, but not _nothing_. She thinks of how tired he looked, even after just finishing a full night's sleep, and how frustrated by it all, and how he'd brought the teapot out from his workshop the night before and lamented that his distraction and inattentiveness had allow the tea to go cold.

It's a simple thing, to press her fingers to the sides of the teapot while it steeps, to feel the warmth of the water seeping through to warm the ceramic, and to weave a few twists of magic through the pot, to bind that warmth there and to encourage it to keep its contents hot and fresh. It's a simple thing, but it feels daring, feels _risky_. She feels as though she's standing with her toes at the edge of the tallest building in France, with air whipping around her and catastrophe only a half a step in front of her.

It's magic and she knows better than to use it like this, she _knows_ better. But it's something she can do for him, some little thing to make his life easier and his day better, and she can't bring herself to reach out and untwist the strands of magic and release the spell. She binds it tighter instead, makes it stronger and more stable, and then carries the pot down the hall to Combeferre's workshop just the same as she has every other day before.

He hasn't been working long enough to have truly lost himself in it, yet. He turns his head half toward her when the door creaks open beneath her hand, makes a sound that somehow manages to sound both grateful and chagrined at the same time, and pushes a tray of instruments to one side to make room for her to set the pot down.

"Thank you," he says, distracted and distant, his attention already swiveled back around to his experiment. "I'll try not to let it go to waste, this time."

"Don't worry about it," she tells him easily, and then, with her hands empty and her task completed, hesitates before making her way back to the door.

She's very careful and very deliberate when she reaches out to clasp his shoulder before she takes her leave of him. He turns his face toward her when she does so, even though his gaze is distant and his attention is clearly elsewhere, like a flower blindly following the warmth of the sun as it makes its passage across the sky. And she's very deliberate, too, this time, when she thinks of his hand on hers when he'd gone to bed the night before, his touch trailing across her shoulder days ago, her lips on his cheek in the middle of their kitchen while her heart pounded like a drumbeat within her chest -- and she leans into him for just a moment, and bends to press a kiss to the crown of his head before she flees, the last of her courage spent.

With the workshop door safely shut between them, she leans back against the wall in the hallway and tips her head back and fights to remember how to breathe. Her heart pounds so hard she can feel it like thunder all through her body, and her chest is tight, her lungs burning for air she can't manage to fill them with.

She stays there for long minutes, struggling for calm. And when she finally opens her eyes -- not calm, nowhere near it, but at least steadier -- she finds Azelma staring at her from the hallway's end, her eyes full of accusation and her expression dark, and the world seems to wobble beneath Éponine's feet once more.

She pushes herself away from the wall, away from the door, too thin a separation between them and Combeferre for her to have this conversation there, where he might overhear. "Azelma--"

Azelma at least waits until Éponine has reached her side, so she can hiss, low and furious but at least quiet enough not to carry, "That wasn't an accident. I know what accidental spells look like, and that wasn't one."

Éponine swallows down all the protests that want to rise up in her. "No," she agrees softly, and guides her sister out to sit with her on the settee.

Azelma sits, poised on the very edge of the cushion like she's ready to leap to her feet again at a moment's notice, a spring wound too tight. _"Why?"_ she demands, her hands balling into fists on her lap. "Why do you get to do magic and I don't?"

"Because--" Éponine's words choke her. _Because there's nothing else I can do. Because I don't know why he'd keep us around if I'm not making his life easier or better in some way. Because he's been so unhappy lately, and a pot of warm tea is little comfort but it's all I have to give him._ She shuts her eyes briefly and fights, again, for calm. "I'm trying to help him," she says at last, and feels how thin an excuse it is even as she says the words.

Azelma's frown only deepens, thoroughly unconvinced and increasingly unhappy. "I could help him too," she says, and all at once she doesn't sound angry, she sounds pleading. "I could help, we could do it together--"

"Sweetheart," Éponine says, and succumbs to the urge to wrap an arm around her sister's shoulders and pull her into her embrace, pressing her close against her chest, against her aching heart. "Sweetheart, you don't have to, that's the thing."

Azelma lets herself be hugged for a moment, pressing her face into the fabric of Éponine's dress before she goes tense in her arms and struggles back out of her grip. "I _want_ to," she says. "I want to do magic, I like doing it. If we can only do magic to help him, then let me _help."_

_You can't_ , Éponine wants to say, but the words rise up to choke her. _Anything else, can't you love anything else in the world but this?_ "If anyone knew," she says instead, and her voice comes out strangled and hoarse. "If anyone knew what you could do, if anyone finds out--"

Azelma gives her a long, somber look. "He's not like Papa, you know," she says at last, soft, and Éponine flinches at the shock of it. "Or like Maman. He's not-- He's _good_. Why can't we trust him?"

Every admonition that Éponine has ever given her sister about why she can't let anyone know about her skill for magic rises up in her, a sick, desperate tide of _you'll be taken advantage of_ and _you deserve a childhood_ and _they'll look at you and see only the money they can make off of you, and nothing else_.

But she can't bring herself to say any of those things about Combeferre. It doesn't do anything to stop the horrible, nauseating fear surging up within her, but she can't find a place in her that believes that Combeferre would see Azelma doing magic, and think only of the profit that could be made from it.

"He is good," she agrees, whisper-soft. It had never taken anything more than the slightest inconvenience to make their parents snap at anyone who made the mistake of crossing their path, and it had been like the bared teeth of a growling dog -- an overt threat, that bore with it the promise of violence. But Combeferre had been in pain for weeks, had been poorly rested and hurting and now just as that had been resolved, he'd been made equally snappish by the frustrations of his work. But in the face of all of it, Éponine had never once feared for their safety around him. She'd never felt that cold, creeping certainty that things were about to erupt into something terrible and devastating. It had been nearly a constant state she'd lived in, or lived with, in their parents' home, and she somehow hadn't even noticed that she'd been living free of its weight for weeks now.

She takes a breath, filling her lungs until they ache and then letting it all out, slow and careful. "He is good," she says again, more sure. "But he's not the only one who might notice, and not everyone is as kind as he is. There are people who would see the magics you can make and would think only about how they could benefit from it."

"Like Maman," Azelma says quietly, and it's not a question, despite the way her gaze searches Éponine's face like she's seeking confirmation. "Like Papa."

Éponine's breath catches, and her heart splinters in her chest like pottery dropped upon the ground. In all the years that their parents have been wheedling charms out of her, Éponine has never once heard Azelma acknowledge that she knew what they were after. Maman and Papa always poured on the honey, when they wanted charms from her, always told her how pretty and sweet and clever she was, and Azelma had always seemed innocently pleased by the praise.

"Yes," Éponine whispers, fighting back the burn of tears behind her eyes. "Like Maman and Papa. Azelma, I did everything I could to get you away from that." _I wed a stranger. I stole you away from them. I upended all our lives to keep you safe, to make sure you're happy_. "Everything I could, and then more on top of it. I can't-- I can't see you used like that again. I can't let it happen."

Azelma's face shifts, crumpling into an expression of heartbreaking sadness. She climbs up onto Éponine's lap and presses in against her, arms wrapped like a vise around her middle and face pressed into her shoulder. "Don't cry," she whispers, though she sounds like she's on the verge of doing so herself. "Please don't be sad. You've been so much happier here. I won't do magic, I promise, just please don't cry."

Éponine shakes her head, her throat closing off too thick for her to speak. And it's just as well, because what would she say? With Azelma clinging to her and shaking and sounding utterly miserable as she promises to give up what she loves to make Éponine happy, all Éponine can think to say is _no, no, don't do that, you're not supposed to be the one sacrificing for me, I want you to have everything and I'd give the world to see that you could._

But she can't say that, not when what Azelma wants is to be able to do magic. So Éponine just holds her sister tight, arms squeezed about her middle, and rocks her and shushes her, and tries to put on a good face, so Azelma won't think she's unhappy.

*

Combeferre's reaction to the spelled teapot is so enthusiastic that Éponine can't even honestly consider unraveling the charm and letting things go back to how they had been. When he first comes out from his workshop, empty teapot in hand, and proclaims, "Éponine, you're a marvel," her heart sinks straight down into her stomach with the horrible certainty that he's realized what she's done.

She's already scrambling for an explanation, an excuse, when he continues, "I don't know how you manage it, but I swear each pot you bring me is better than the last. Did you do something different today?"

She swallows the lump in her throat and makes herself smile, makes herself keep her voice light when she says, "It's the same you've had here since before we came along. I think you just like not having to make it for yourself."

He changes direction as he heads toward the kitchen, taking an angle that will bring him past the chair she's sitting in, and he reaches out to give her shoulder a squeeze as he passes. "If I could make it like you can," he says, "I wouldn't mind it half so much."

He leaves it at that, content with his point made, and Éponine watches him work in the kitchen. He whistles to himself as he does so, and scarcely even seems to notice her looking.

He seems in a better mood than he has been, lately, and there's little point in wondering why. The only thing that's changed is the charm on the pot, and it seems like such a little thing, but it's had a more noticeable impact on Combeferre than anything else she's done around the house to try to make herself useful.

It cements her decision, even as she feels quietly ill at the thought of doing more magic, deliberately, right in front of him where she could be seen and it could be noticed. It's so nice to see him happy, though, to hear him whistling to himself and to witness the flash of his smile when he glances over and finds one of them watching him in the kitchen. After everything she's already done, moving in and availing herself of his generosity and bringing Azelma and Gavroche along, no less -- after everything he's already done for them, the least she can do is seize upon anything she can do to make him happy in turn.

They fall into an easy routine after that, of charming teapots to stay warm and the oven to stay hot long after the embers died, of working a simple magic into the banked coals to keep them smoldering all through the night and weaving a charm into the edges of their blanket, to make it always feel as though there's enough of it to cover them both. And every time she does, Combeferre seems to remark upon it, with casual comments about how well he slept or how nice it is on a cold morning to rise and find the coals still warm, waiting and ready to be stirred back to life.

He's so appreciative, even when he doesn't realize it's anything but good luck, and each time, it makes it harder for her to consider stopping and going back to hiding her magic and keeping it out of sight. If he doesn't know she's doing it and it makes him happy, where's the harm? How can she justify taking that happiness from him, especially when his work continues to be such a source of frustration to him?

It becomes routine, too, for him to bundle up in a coat and a scarf after supper and go out to meet with his friends, more nights than not. Every time, he tells her on his way out the door that he'll likely be late and she needn't wait up for him, and every time she waits all the same. And every time he comes home, he slips through the front door like he fears waking anybody, and then smiles like he's been greeted with the most wonderful surprise, when he sees her there curled up on the settee with a book or some mending or something else she's found to charm around the house.

"You must be dead on your feet," he says to her, when he finds her there waiting for him, and she always answers, "No more than you." And every time, he smiles and chuckles under his breath and crosses over to her, and lays a hand on her shoulder or brushes a strand of hair back behind her ear or reaches down to clasp her hand in his, and coaxes her to her feet and tells her about how his meeting went as they make their way to their room, and to bed.

This night, she's already washed and dried the dishes, and has miraculously caught up on the mending, and is curled on the settee with her head pillowed on its arm and her book drooping from her fingers, fighting a losing battle against nodding off while she waits for him, when she hears his key rattling in the lock. She rouses, blinking away the fog of sleepiness, and leaves her book on the settee as she goes to undo the lock for him, and welcome him home.

He looks as weary as she feels, though he summons a tired smile for her when she opens the door before he's managed to make his key work in the lock. "My savior," he says. "I was starting to think I might have to sleep curled on the step like a stray cat."

She laughs beneath her breath and leans forward so she can grasp his key and help jiggle it free from the lock, and maybe it's that, maybe it's because she moved when he expected her to be still, or maybe it's because it's the middle of the night and he looks half asleep there where he stands, and maybe he's just tired enough that he forgets himself. But he curls a hand around her elbow and says, "You wouldn't be laughing if you tripped over me on your way out the door to market, come morning," and she turns her face towards him to answer his joke with one of her own, just as he leans in, and maybe that's all it is, maybe it's just an accident that instead of brushing a kiss against her cheek or her brow like he always does, his lips brush against hers and she freezes, all at once very awake.

He's frozen, too, unmoving, and she can hear his breath coming fast and feel the gust of it against her cheek, and she thinks, _Move away, just move back, that's all you have to do. Just half a step, Éponine,_ but she can't. Her body has stopped responding to her and she just stands there, struck mute and far, far too aware of how warm his lips are against hers, and how soft, and how he isn't moving either, not to pull away or to push closer.

Eventually, her lungs begin to burn and she recovers herself enough to draw a sharp breath. The rush of air through her is like a dam breaking, and puts a whisper of space between their mouths, and suddenly she can move again. She pulls back at the same time that Combeferre does, her cheeks aflame.

She's not sure what she expects to see on his face -- chagrin, perhaps, or embarrassment at the mistake her inadvertent movement caused. Instead, he looks stunned, and she's not sure if that's better or worse.

"I--" She starts to speak, but then stops with the realization that she doesn't know what to say. She flounders, and it's that that brings Combeferre back to himself.

He reaches out to catch one of her hands in his and gives it a squeeze. "We're both half asleep where we stand," he says gently. "We don't have to have this conversation tonight."

She feels like she's been thrown a lifeline. She clings to it desperately, and nods. "Yes." Her voice scratches through her throat as though it's been weeks since she used it, instead of moments. "Let's just go to bed. Please."

She's basically begging, but he's kind enough not to remark upon it. He only gives her hand another squeeze and steps through the door that they've been standing in the middle of, shuts and locks the door behind himself without taking his gaze from her, and releases her hand to wrap his arm around her shoulders instead. He's trying to comfort her, she knows, but she can feel his weariness in the weight he leans against her.

It helps, somehow. She lifts a hand up to where Combeferre's is dangling over her shoulder and threads their fingers together. He stumbles a little over his own feet, but catches himself, and they keep each other up as they make their way to the bedroom.

She can't bring herself to look at him as they part to their own sides of the bed and change into their nightclothes, half-convinced that if she catches his eye he'll change his mind about the conversation and make her have it now, while her head's still spinning from the kiss and she can't keep hold of her thoughts long enough to know what it means that it happened, or that she didn't pull away, or that she didn't pull him closer.

She changes quickly, her movements brisk and efficient, and climbs beneath the blankets and puts her back to the middle of the bed. Then there's nothing she can do but lie tense with the blankets clutched at her chin, staring at the far wall and listening to the quiet sounds of Combeferre finishing getting ready for bed.

The room goes dark all at once as Combeferre trims down the lamp. The blankets rustle and the bed creaks beneath his weight, and then a hand lands lightly on her shoulder. She nearly leaps out of her skin, but he only tugs the blankets up and tucks them more securely about her shoulders.

"Good night, Éponine," he says softly. She can't bring herself to respond, but he settles down right after, and doesn't seem to be expecting it, anyway.

*

In the morning, Éponine wakes with her heart already in her throat, panic coursing through her. She can feel Combeferre still asleep behind her, the quiet, steady sounds of his breathing. She slips out of bed, hardly daring to breathe, and when that doesn't rouse him, snatches up her clothes and flees while she can.

She makes breakfast just for something to keep her hands busy and her mind occupied, though judging by the angle of the light coming through the windows it's too early for the others to be likely to be up soon. She makes porridge, because it'll keep on the stove until Combeferre and the children are awake and ready to eat, and it'll reheat well.

And when the porridge is done and no one is yet awake, and she is faced with the prospect of a quiet, empty home with nothing to fill it but her own thoughts, and then the inevitability of Combeferre waking and wanting to have the conversation he had spared her last night, she sneaks back into the bedroom to retrieve her shoes, throws a shawl around her shoulders, and flees the house to the bustle and the noise of the market, instead.

There are a few things she needs, and she finds them readily enough, then wastes time wandering the rest of the stalls and chatting with the men and women running them. She buys nuts on a whim, though ordinarily she'd balk at the expense, and apples from a fruit stand, and a bit of honey with the last of the coin she brought with her, and then there's little for it but to square her shoulders and haul her goods back home.

She can hear the sounds of voices through the door, before she's even unlocked it. When she lets herself inside, she finds everyone else awake and in the kitchen, Combeferre stirring the porridge while it warms again on the stove.

"I wondered if you'd gone to market," he says by way of greeting, with a warm smile and no hint of censure that she can find in his voice. "We were debating whether we ought to start without you or wait for your return, but you've saved us the decision."

"You could have," she says, unloading her burdens onto the counter beside him. She can scarcely bring herself to look at him. "I wouldn't mind. But if your stomachs can bear to wait a little longer, I got some things you might enjoy."

They work together, side by side, and it's at once both comfortable and excruciating. She spends the whole time braced for him to speak, to bring up the night before, to make her talk about it when she still doesn't even know what to think about it. But though she once glances up from dicing apples to find him paused with the knife forgotten in his hand, watching her with an intensely thoughtful expression, he only smiles when she catches his eye, and shakes himself as though coming out of a reverie, and returns to the nuts he's chopping up.

When everything's done, Combeferre dishes up bowls of porridge for everyone, and Éponine tops them with the nuts and apples and a drizzle of honey, and gives a little extra of all three to the children, and they all carry their bowls to the table to eat together.

It's easy enough to let Azelma and Gavroche dominate the conversation at the table, and steer it, and Combeferre seems willing enough to engage with them. But when they've finished eating and run off to play, leaving Éponine alone at the table with Combeferre, all the good food in her stomach abruptly turns to lead. She pushes the remains of her porridge about in the bottom of her bowl, braced. Surely now, now that they've slept and the children are gone and there's no more excuses to put it off, he'll want to have that conversation. She wonders, desperately, what to say to him. She wishes she knew what she wanted to say.

Combeferre clears his throat and she thinks, _Oh God, this is it._ She can't bear to look at him, but the scrape of his chair across the floorboards makes her jump, makes her gaze fly up to him despite herself.

He has his bowl in his hand, and the children's, and reaches for her with his brows raised in question. "I can take that, if you're done."

"I can clear my own dishes," she says, her voice thin and thready, her fingers gripped tight around her spoon.

His smile goes crooked, but no less warm. "You cooked."

She swallows hard, and breaks her gaze away from his. "You helped."

"Éponine," he says, and it seems like they're arguing again, but his voice doesn't sound like they're arguing, it sounds warm and fond. "Clear your dishes, then, if you wish, but I'm doing the washing."

It's a testament to the turmoil within her that she doesn't protest any further, just carries her bowl into the kitchen, leaves it in the sink while Combeferre follows behind her, and then escapes while she can, before he's able to bring up the night before. And then, it's easy enough to embroil herself in helping Azelma and Gavroche resolve a dispute between them, and she doesn't even notice when Combeferre leaves the kitchen for his workshop, only realizes that she's somehow managed the impossible when she discovers that half the morning has gone and she hasn't seen him since the breakfast table.

She makes him tea and leaves it close at hand, and then lunch, when the hour calls for it, and still he never turns to her and entreats her to stay and makes her talk with him. She thinks he must be waiting for suppertime, once his work is done for the day-- and when that comes and goes, she thinks he must be waiting for Azelma and Gavroche to go to bed. But the day ends with her curled on her side of the bed, Combeferre a warm presence at her back, and somehow having managed the impossible.

A second day passes in much the same way, and then a third, and with each one the knots around her chest loosen and she breathes a little easier, and feels less and less like she needs to tiptoe through their house and around Combeferre. With each, it becomes easier to believe that maybe he won't force her to have this conversation after all, maybe they can chalk it up to how late it was and how tired they were, and go back to how it had been before.

Things aren't quite exactly the same as they'd been, not now that awareness runs between them like an electric charge whenever they're in a room together, but they find a point of equilibrium all the same, and settle back into their household routines, and Éponine has just a moment to think that maybe everything will be all right after all.

Of course it's only then, when she's just begun to let her guard back down, when it all goes to pieces, late one morning when she's just starting to think about what to do for lunch for them all when there's a sudden sound like cannonfire, and an unseen force that hits her in the chest and knocks all the air from her lungs.

For an instant, instinct takes over and she flinches away. But in the next moment she's on her feet, running toward it, heedless of the acrid smell that fills the hallway.

The door to Combeferre's workshop is open, the air beyond it hazy with smoke or steam that's just starting to drift out into the hallway beyond. She calls his name desperately, fear like a fist gripping her heart.

The first answer she gets is choked coughing, and then, half-strangled, "Éponine, stay out."

She catches herself on the doorframe, breathing hard and practically vibrating with the strain of holding herself back. "I can't see you. Are you all right? Where are you?"

"I'm fine, I--" He breaks off into another coughing spell. "Some of the bottles broke. Don't come in, there could be toxic fumes--"

_That_ makes her pull back, makes her spin on her heel, her thoughts gone straight to Azelma and Gavroche. They're already coming down the hall, drawn by the sound of the explosion, Azelma looking worried and Gavroche eager.

"What happened?" he asks, ducking to try to see around Éponine. "Can I see?"

"No." She blindly digs a handful of coins out of her pouch and presses them into Gavroche's hands, heedless of the amount that she might be giving him. "Take this, and take your sister, and go get yourselves something to eat. Take care of her, Gav, until--" Her voice wavers. She shores it up, keeps her shoulders squared and her back straight. "Until it's safe. I'll find you, when it is."

Gavroche's expression turns eloquent with dismay. "But I want--"

_"Gavroche."_

He snaps his mouth shut, shoulders pulled up to his ears, expression sullen. But he shoves the money into a pocket, sighs noisily, and turns to find Azelma and take her hand in his. "Come on," he says, mulishly. "I know a kid whose Papa makes the best sweets in Paris."

He glances over his shoulder at Éponine as he says it, like he's waiting for her to protest that sweets don't make a proper meal, but she just grips the edge of the workshop doorframe to keep her hands from shaking until they've both gone, and then she whips around and calls, "Combeferre! Combeferre, damn your toxic fumes, if you don't come out I'm coming in to find you."

She gets another series of coughs in response, and then shuffling steps and the crunch of broken glass. "I'm coming," he says, still too thin for her to take any comfort in, but at least she can see him now, a shifting shadow in the darkened room, making slow progress towards the door. "Don't come in, it's not safe."

"If you think saying that is making me _less_ inclined to come drag you out of there," she says, her voice tight, "you're wrong."

The cough that follows sounds almost like a laugh. "Don't. I'm coming."

She catches her breath when he reaches the swath of light coming through the open door. There's a streak of blood down the side of his face and rips in his shirt, and on the whole he looks more haggard than she's ever seen him. He moves like each step is painful, and she can't tell from where she is whether it's due to injury or whatever fumes he's concerned about, but it's all she can do not to go to him.

She watches him sharply as he comes toward her, ready to throw his warnings to the wind and come help him at the first sign he needs it. When he's an arm's-length from the door, she pries her fingers off of the doorframe and moves toward him.

He tries to protest and wave her back, but he's practically at the door now, anyway, so she ignores it to lift his arm around her shoulder, helping to take some of his weight. "Come on," she says. "Do you think you can make it to the settee? You look like you're about to fall over, but it'll be a softer place to land than the hallway floor."

The sound he makes is more laugh than cough, and she takes some small measure of comfort in it. "I can make it. Thank you."

"Don't thank me," she says carefully, and makes sure to swing the workshop door shut behind them, once they're both through. "I'm going to yell myself hoarse in a moment, but it'll lose some of its impact if you keel over when I'm only halfway through."

"I'll try to stay upright, then," he says, sounding wry.

Together, they make it to the sitting room without incident. Éponine helps him onto the settee, trying not to notice the way he grimaces as he shifts his weight.

"All right, then." He sighs and settles against the settee's back. "Let's hear it. I'm sure I deserve every word."

Her mouth has gone dry and her throat tight. She swallows, but it does nothing to help. "In a moment," she says, and kneels on the rug before him, lifting one hand to his jaw to turn his head to the side. "You're bleeding." She takes the hem of her skirt and uses it to dab at the sluggish trail of blood still making a mess of the side of his face.

He grimaces as she does her best to clean him, and she's not sure if it's from pain or from the reminder. "It's from the glass, most likely," he says, one hand curled tight on his knee. "A few bottles broke in the explosion. The glass went everywhere." Careful not to move from her ministrations, he lifts a hand to his shoulder, where the sleeve of his shirt is ripped with a few small holes, and grimaces again.

"You're lucky it's only your cheek and your sleeve." It's an effort to keep her voice even. He glances at her as she speaks, and she thinks he knows. "Hold still, let me see if there's any glass in the wound."

He does as she tells him, keeping very still beneath her hands. He only has a few small cuts on the side of his face, despite all the blood that's come from them, and when she's assured herself that they're clean, she sits back on her heels. "Your shoulder?"

He shakes his head. "It's fine."

She blows out a sharp breath. "The glass cut your shirt, you don't expect me to believe that it didn't cut you too, do you?"

He makes a face like she's asking him to do something unpleasant, then sighs and starts working open the front of his shirt, far enough that he can pull the neck wide and show her his shoulder.

He's only scratched, a little bit of blood smeared across his skin and staining his shirt. She makes sure that they don't have any fragments of glass lodged in them as well, just to be sure. His skin is warm beneath her hands and he takes in a deep breath when she touches him, like it hurts, though he doesn't flinch away.

She looks up at him, and is startled to realize just how close her inspection had brought her to him. He's very near and he's watching her very closely and for just a moment her thoughts scatter, before she recalls herself and frowns.

"The glass that cut you," she says. "It was from the bottles that broke."

He nods once, his expression inscrutable.

"The ones you were worried might have made fumes when they spilled."

Another nod, and this one makes her hands shake with what it means.

She pushes up onto her feet all at once. "We need to wash them out, then. If there were toxic chemicals on the glass, and the glass cut you-- You could be poisoned." She buries her hands in the folds of her skirt to hide how they're trembling. "You're going to have to tell me what I need to do. I don't even know what chemicals you had in there, not that it would do me any good if I did." She clenches her hands into fists around handfuls of the fabric of her skirt. "Tell me what to do."

It seems like he's quiet for forever, though she tries to reassure herself that it only seems so because of the panic that's clawing at her, wrapping fingers around her throat. When he speaks, he says, "First, breathe."

She sucks in a great, gulping breath of air, and sways a little, lightheaded at the rush of oxygen.

" _I_ know what chemicals were in my lab," he says. "And there's nothing there that would have poisoned me in its own right, and not in whatever quantities might have been carried on a few shards of glass. It's the reactions taking place where they spilled and combined that concern me, not--" He waves a hand, encompassing his face and his shoulder and the whole mess of him. "Not this. Breathe easy, Éponine. I'm fine, I promise. They're only scratches."

It steadies her, at least a little. Still, she asks, "You're sure?" and watches his face carefully for any sign he's not being perfectly honest.

He nods, and his lips quirk into a lopsided half-smile. "You can yell, I promise," he tells her gently. "I'm not so hurt that I can't take it."

Absurdly, as soon as he's given permission it feels as though all the words that she'd held back while Azelma and Gavroche and Combeferre needed her attention have fizzled away beneath the heat of her anger, like water left too long over the fire. She speaks, but the words come out hoarse, and thin as a sewing thread. "You put us all in danger," she says.

He lets out a long, slow sigh and leans against the back of the settee, as though only now that she's scolding him can he relax, though the pained grimace he makes seems to say otherwise. She thinks she'll never understand him at all. "I'm sorry," he says, low and like he means it. "I never would have done so intentionally."

"That's not the point." She takes a breath, and it's like blowing air on a fire, stirring it back to life. All at once it burns hot and ferocious beneath her breast, and she thinks she could scream for days and still have more inside her. "You put us in danger. You put my _siblings_ in _danger_. Not intentionally, no, I know you better than to think that of you, but we've been in danger since we moved in here and none of us knew it but you. And you never said." Her hands are shaking again, a delayed reaction to how much worse this might have been. "How were we to know we ought to worry our home might explode on us, there might be glass flying through the halls, that there might be _toxic fumes_?"

Combeferre just watches her sadly. "I'm sorry, Éponine," he tells her again. "You're right. It was a mistake, and it was a stupid one. It shouldn't have happened. I should have never let it."

She wants to strike out and hit him, or collapse into tears there on the rug at the thought of what might have happened to the people she loves best. She holds herself back, holds herself up with force of will and the strength of her anger. "I brought them here because it wasn't safe for them at home. It wasn't good for them. This was supposed to be better. What are we _doing here_ if our house is going to explode around us at any moment?"

"I should have been more careful."

"Stop agreeing with me!" she shouts, abruptly teetering on the brink of tears, though it's stupid to want to cry _now_ , when all danger has passed. But he's so solemn and she doesn't know how to argue like this, when he's just nodding and telling her she's right instead of screaming back at her. She feels like a ship without its mooring, tossed about in the gale of her emotions, and his soft-spoken acceptance won't give her anything to anchor herself to.

He sits back, a frown gathering between his brows, and at least that's something, at least it's something more than him just sitting there and taking it while she rails against him, like it's some sort of penance. "Okay," he says carefully, and for a moment she wants to pull at her hair and _scream_. "What do you need from me?"

The question brings her up short. Not what she wants, but what she _needs_. It's a different answer entirely, and it takes some thought for her to sort through the fear and the pain and find the truth of it hiding somewhere beneath it all. "I need to know that my family is going to be safe in their home," she says at last.

Combeferre considers it before he nods, and that, too, helps calm her urge to start hurling words like stones. "Okay," he says. "Of course. I'll put some thought into it, and figure out a way to make it happen." His gaze searches hers, and he waits until she catches his eye and holds it. "I would never forgive myself if something happened to any of you," he tells her. "I promise, I'll see to it that you're safe. Whatever it takes."

"All right," she relents, and slumps abruptly, feeling like a puppet with its strings all cut. She scrubs her hands over her face and then presses her palms against her eyes. "God. I need to go find the children. Gavroche might have led them anywhere."

Combeferre groans a little as he tries to get himself to his feet, though he swallows much of it and shakes his head when she tries to offer him a hand. "I'll get the workshop cleaned up while you're out."

She hesitates at that, glancing from him to the hallway. "I should wait, then," she says. "Shouldn't I? Until it's cleaned?"

The sidelong glance that Combeferre slides her way seems to say, _You're not going to fool me, not that easily._ "You don't need to help me, Éponine."

She presses her mouth to a flat line. "You're injured."

"Only a little. Not so much that I can't clean my own messes." He shakes his head when she starts to speak. "Cleaning up spilled chemicals is a delicate business. It's not like mopping up water from the kitchen floor."

He's favoring his right side, just a little, as he makes his way from the settee toward the hallway. She watches him go, eyes narrowed, and follows after him before he's even reached the corridor. "Then you'd better tell me what I need to know."

He gives her a long, enigmatic look, and then all at once, like dawn breaking, he smiles a little. "Go change into something you won't mind ruining, then," he says, with a little tip of his head towards their bedroom. "Some of the reagents I had in there are rather caustic. We'll have to throw our clothes out when we're finished, most likely, but I'll show you how it's done."

*

It's the work of hours to get the chemicals safely cleaned from the workshop floor, and all the broken glass swept up, and the unbroken bottles of solutions moved from the unsteady table to a more secure bench against the far wall that mostly escaped the explosion without taking much damage.

Eventually, Combeferre glances at her and takes the broom and dustpan from her hands. "We're nearly done here," he says quietly. "I can finish up while you go find your brother and sister."

She only nods, relieved at the reprieve from the tedious, careful work of cleaning up things that could injure you greatly. It's its own sort of work, walking the streets of Paris trying to think like Gavroche would, but at least it gets her out of the house for a time, and gets clean air into her lungs, and lets her work out her lingering edginess with long strides down the city's streets.

It doesn't take her overly long to find them. Gavroche might have a fondness for trouble, but he's not the sort to push her when things are dire. She finds them at a little cafe near to the house, looking tense and worried but like they've had themselves a fine meal with the coin she gave them, and she's so relieved to see them that she practically falls down onto her knees as she pulls them both into her arms.

"Are you all right?" Azelma asks her, quiet and solemn, one small hand petting Éponine's hair.

She nods and presses her face into Azelma's shoulder, then lets out a wavering breath and pulls back to smile at them both. "I missed you," she says, to cover for it, and makes her smile bright as she slips both their hands into hers. "Are you ready to go home?"

"Is it going to explode again?" Gavroche asks, looking eager rather than worried.

"Absolutely not," she says, with all the firmness she can muster in her voice.

He looks crestfallen, but grabs the half-eaten remains of a pastry from one of their plates and then falls into step beside her. "Fine," he says around a mouthful of flaky dough. "But I'm going to ask Combeferre how to do it."

She just smiles and squeezes his hand, and lets their conversation buoy her up as they make their way back home.

Combeferre is out of the workshop when they get back, doing something in the kitchen. Gavroche forgets his earlier threat and runs off with Azelma almost immediately, and Éponine comes forward to lean against the doorjamb. "You're not cooking, are you?" she asks plaintively. "I don't have it in me to do any more cleaning, not tonight."

He turns his head a little to smile at her. "I'm not cooking," he says. "I thought we could use something a little easier, tonight." And he picks up the plate he's assembled before himself, filled with bread and sliced cheeses and some vegetables from the market, and carries them to her.

They ought to eat at the table, but she's so tired and so worn that just the thought of it makes something in her wail in despair. She pushes herself upright from the doorjamb and heads straight for the settee, instead, drops down into it gracelessly and reaches for some of the cheese on the plate before Combeferre has even had a chance to sit beside her.

He's close beside her, so he can balance the plate on both their knees and keep it in easy reach of both of them. Their shoulders press together as they sit side by side, and their hands brush sometimes, if they both reach for the same piece of bread or bit of cheese accidentally, and Éponine is worn too thin from everything else to even feel self-conscious about it.

*

She doesn't remember drifting off, and only floats to consciousness slowly, like she's swimming through treacle syrup. There's a crick in her neck, and something soft against her cheek, though she can't remember how she might have gotten to the bedroom.

Her eyes feel gritty as she blinks them open at last, still muzzy enough to be disoriented when she realizes that she's not in the bedroom at all, and it's not the mattress beneath her cheek but Combeferre, his shoulder warm and somehow both solid and comfortable at once.

Slowly, awareness expands through the rest of her body, and she realizes that she's leaning in heavily against his side, practically draped against him, that some of her hair has fallen across her face and gone sticky with sweat, that he has an arm wrapped loosely around her back and a hand on her waist and a book open on his knee that he's reading quietly to himself. And if the stiffness in her neck is any indication, she thinks, he's been tolerating her sleeping against him like this for at least a few hours.

She pushes herself up until she's sitting upright under her own power, groaning and blinking as she does so. As soon as she moves, Combeferre shuts his book and sets it aside onto the arm of the settee, and turns all his attention to focus on her.

She rubs the grit from her eyes with the heels of her hands and mumbles, "Sorry," because it seems the most pertinent of all the things she should say.

"Whatever for?" he asks, sounding startled.

She waves a hand at him, at herself, at the space between them. "Using you for a pillow."

His smile is slow, and very warm. "You certainly don't need to apologize for that."

"I was hanging all over you," she says. "I'm pretty sure I drooled on your shoulder."

Impossibly, his smile grows even warmer. "I didn't mind. Don't mind. I didn't want to disturb you."

"You wouldn't have. But didn't I disturb _you_?" Now that the fog is clearing from her thoughts, she notices the way he's very quietly closing and relaxing his hand, and pressing the fingers of his other hand into his shoulder, and she wonders if that arm had fallen asleep beneath her weight, or at least grown sore from it.

He doesn't hesitate, though, when he answers her question with a, "Not at all." But _then_ he hesitates, and takes a careful breath. She watches him warily, wondering what else he'd have to say to her that would require such care and delicacy. "I was using the time to think, actually. About your concerns."

He still sounds like he's hesitant, like he's trying to feel out a safe path across treacherous ice, though she can't imagine why he'd feel that way about the subject now, when he's already weathered her yelling at him over it. Still, his caution makes her cautious in turn, makes her eye him uncertainly and prompt him with a, "Yes?" when he doesn't continue.

"You're right," he says, and only leaves her more confused than ever. "I'm used to living alone, to the only person whose well-being I have to worry about being my own, and to taking risks with my own safety for the sake of the work. But you're right, I don't have just myself to think about anymore. I have you, I have Gavroche and Azelma, and I can't take risks anymore. I won't, not with your safety on the line."

She only realizes when he stops talking and glances at her sideways, like he's waiting for a response, that she's been holding her breath, waiting for the other shoe to drop. She can't figure out why he looks so uncertain, when everything he's said so far is everything she told him she wanted from him hours before.

"The thing is," he says, "there's really no way to work with chemicals without accepting some risk. It can be mitigated and planned for, but it can't be eliminated entirely. And I've come to realize that I'm not able to accept that, not where you and the children are concerned."

"Combeferre," she breathes, with a horrible, sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, because she thinks suddenly she can see the shape of what he's been talking around all this time. And she'd been the one to say it to him, after all, hadn't she? _Why are we here_ , she'd demanded, and it had been foolish not to expect him to take that to heart. "Are you asking us to leave?"

_"What?"_ His gaze flies up to her, suddenly open and awash with shock. "No! God, Éponine, no, of course not. I never would."

Surprise has stripped any sort of guile away from him, left everything written plain across his face, and she feels on a steadier keel with the honesty she'd grown used to restored between them. But when she says, "It's the obvious answer, though, isn't it? For you to work, and for us to be safe from it," his expression shutters again, his pulling into a deep furrow, like he's concentrating very hard.

"If you want to leave," he says, and each word is weighted like he's picking them very carefully, "I'd understand, and I'd honor it. But I'm not asking that of you. I don't--" His voice cracks just a little, and she's not sure if it's honesty breaking through again or the ice that he's been so wary of about to give way beneath his feet. "I don't want that," he finishes, soft and so brutally honest that for a moment, Éponine can't breathe.

"I don't understand," she says, miserable because she knows this is going to go poorly somehow, it _has_ to, with the way he's looking at her. And she's still half-asleep, still fuzzy from the nap and disoriented by waking up on Combeferre's shoulder, and how comfortable she had been, waking up with the warmth of his skin against hers, the strength of his shoulder beneath her cheek, the solidity of his arm around her back. It had been nice to wake up that way, and that in itself is enough to send her off-kilter. But now he's looking unhappy and talking in circles around what he really wants to say and she knows it has to be bad, whatever it is. "I don't understand what's the _matter_."

"Nothing— Nothing's the matter." But there's a hesitation there, and that makes her sure that she's right. "My thought was that I need to isolate my workshop, so that if anything goes wrong again, it can't spill over into the house. So that it can't harm any of you. To that effect—" He pulls his shoulders back and turns to face her squarely, and she thinks, _Here it comes_. She wishes she knew what she ought to be bracing for. She wishes she knew what could be bad enough to make him look so solemn, when the suggestion that he might want them to leave shocked him as though it hadn't even crossed his mind. "I don't know precisely how these things work, so you'll have to help me. But I was wondering if there were any charms you could do, to protect the house, and keep anything dangerous from crossing out of the workshop into our home."

There's a single instant where she feels at sea, uncomprehending, and time spools out around her until that one moment seems infinite and eternal. And then, like a thunderclap, she realizes that he said _charm_ , realizes that he means _magic_ , and the bottom of the world falls out from underneath her.

"What— I— I don't—" She can scarcely get enough breath into her lungs to speak. She feels jarred, like she's taken a sudden fall and the impact has driven all the air out of her, left her hollow and floundering.

He watches her carefully, quietly, and his face gives nothing away at all. "Éponine," he says softly. "Are you all right?"

"I can't— Why— Why would you ask that of me?" she demands, whipping around towards him.

He seems a little taken aback, at first. And then, even more uncertain than he's been through this entire conversation. "I know you've seemed reticent about it," he says. "I don't pretend to understand it, but honoring that seemed the least I could do. You'd been more open about it lately, though, about letting me see, and I thought—" For a moment, he looks lost, and then sad. She doesn't understand why, and she doesn't understand why seeing him that way makes something deep within her chest ache. "I thought you were coming to trust me," he says, whisper-soft. "And I thought even if you weren't, that for the sake of your safety, and that of the children, it was worth mentioning all the same."

"You— You knew—" Her words choke off as her throat closes tight around the storm of fear and confusion roiling within her. She pushes up to her feet and staggers away, fighting to remember how to breathe. "You never even said anything, you just let me act the fool."

Combeferre's expression softens, going open and a little sad again. He gets to his feet slowly and takes half a step toward her, murmurs, "Éponine…"

She jerks back. "No. Don't." The words are strangled, but they stop him in his tracks. "I need-- I need to breathe. I need to think." _I need away from here, away from you, away from everything._ She staggers away, turns blindly and finds the door there straight ahead of her. All at once the house feels claustrophobic, the air within it suffocating. She moves towards the door without thought, without being aware of having decided anything.

"Éponine," he says after her, more urgent. And she knows if she stays, she'll drown beneath the weight of this.

"I need-- Please," she begs. " _Please_." And when she reaches out for the door, he doesn't stop her.

She pulls it open and flees through it, out of the house and into the prickling cold of the night. She lets her feet fly over the streets, and doesn't let herself look back.

*

It takes Grantaire several long minutes to answer her frantic knocking. When he opens the door, there's a frown and an annoyed expression fixed on his face, but both vanish the moment he takes her in. "Éponine. What's happened?"

She draws in great, gulping breaths of air, like she's been running, or crying, though neither is true. "I— I don't— I needed…someone," she finally manages, feebly.

His gaze lingers on her for a moment, and then he just nods once and steps back, opening the door to her. "Come in, of course. I'll get you a blanket."

"I don't need—"

He barks a laugh, short and thoroughly unamused, and his voice comes back to her as he vanishes into the bedroom. "You've been out in the night without even a shawl to cover you. And you, what, _walked_ here?" She nods, wordless, and hovers awkwardly just inside the doorway, uncertain in a way she's never been with Grantaire. "You look like you'll turn into an icicle if you stand still too long." He comes back out of the bedroom, a thick blanket bundled up in his arms, and cuts through her awkwardness with a jerk of his head towards the nearest chair and a perfunctory, "Sit."

She sits, and lets him drape the blanket over her. She feels foolish, but the warmth of the blanket eases something in her that she hadn't realized had been twisted up so tight.

Grantaire pulls the other chair around the table to in front of her and drops down into it. "Now, then." His voice is all at once tight and unhappy. "What's he done?"

Her gaze flies up to him, startled. "What? Why would you think—"

Grantaire makes a quick, dismissive gesture, a slash of his hand through the air. "If it was your parents, you'd be here in a rage, not like…this."

He's kind enough not to say what _this_ means, but she knows it all the same. She's a mess of confusion and pain, and she's sure if she had a mirror to see herself in, she'd look half-wild.

"Éponine," Grantaire says urgently, when she's still trying to sort through the whirlwind of her own thoughts to figure out how to answer his question, and leans forward to catch her hand in his. "Has he mistreated you?"

" _No_ ," she cries, and covers her face with the hand he isn't holding as the tears she hasn't yet shed finally prick and burn at her eyes. "No, he's wonderful. He hasn't done anything he shouldn't."

Grantaire is quiet for a moment. Perhaps he's thinking, or maybe, she thinks, he's giving her the time she needs to get herself under control. She sniffs and presses her hand against her eyes, but it doesn't help. "I don't understand," Grantaire says at length, quietly. "Then why are you here, instead of with him?"

She drops her hand. There's no point in pretending she isn't crying anymore, anyway. She looks at Grantaire miserably and whispers, "He's wonderful."

Grantaire watches her for a long moment, searching her face for something she isn't sure of. Then he reaches out and squeezes her hand before getting to his feet and walking away, somewhere deeper in the house where she can't see.

He's back in a moment, a half-empty wine bottle in his hands, and he drops back into his chair and holds it out to her, one brow lifted. "It sounds like you could use this," he says, and his voice is wry but it's also kind.

Éponine hiccups a laugh and wipes at her eyes. "Maybe," she admits, and dries her hand on the blanket before she reaches out to accept the bottle from him.

She drinks from it, long enough that both of Grantaire's eyebrows raise and something shifts in his expression, turning sad and knowing. She could ask him what that means, but she isn't sure she wants to know the answer, so she just sets the bottle on the table as the wine starts to warm her, and murmurs, "Thank you."

Grantaire shifts his chair around abruptly, the legs scraping across the floor as he swings it so that it's beside her instead of across from her, and he drops back into it so that they're pressed close together, his arm pushing against hers, and then pushing even harder when he shifts his weight to lean his head against her shoulder. "There's more where that came from, if you want it," he says. "You needn't stop on my account." His hair is soft against her cheek and the weight of him tipped against her is a comfort. "Sometimes it can help."

She considers it, but doesn't reach for the bottle again, not just yet. "Help with what?"

Grantaire turns his head without taking it from her shoulder, looking up at her. He says, "Heartache," softly, and bands of pressure squeeze tight around her chest as though he's summoned them there just by naming them.

She shuts her eyes for a moment and just breathes. "This isn't the same. It's not like you and—" She breaks off, then, grimacing, because sometimes Grantaire is sanguine about the state of his heart, and sometimes all it takes is a word to send his mood spinning off into something black and stormy. "It's not the same."

"It doesn't have to be." Grantaire reaches across her to take the bottle himself, and drinks from it before offering it to her again. She accepts it and takes a sip, then puts it on the table again. "Heartache is heartache, and the lovely thing about alcohol is it's so wonderfully indiscriminate. It numbs all pains equally."

Éponine hums, noncommittal. The wine doesn't feel numbing, it feels like a fire spreading through her belly. She feels like she's been frozen and the wine's heat is thawing her out, but she's not sure what they'll find beneath all the layers of ice, or if it'll be anything even remotely pleasant. It feels like something ugly and raw and terrifying is waking up inside her.

"It's not heartache," she says on a whisper, but it sounds feeble even to her own ears. "He's not— He hasn't hurt me. I have no reason to be sad."

Grantaire lifts his head from her shoulder so he can look at her properly, solemnly. He reaches out with one hand and wipes an errant tear from her cheek. "Then why are you?" he asks softly.

There's a lump in her throat that feels like it's the size of a boulder, and she has to swallow against it three times before she's able to make a sound. It doesn't matter -- she wouldn't know what to say, even if she had been able to speak. "He's so kind," she whispers at last, pulling at a frayed thread in the weft of Grantaire's blanket. "And Azelma adores him, and Gavroche-- Well, Gavroche tolerates him."

"That's high praise, from Gavroche," Grantaire says, with a small curve to his mouth that invites her to share in the joke and allow him to lighten the mood.

She gives a wet laugh and scrubs the coarse texture of the blanket across her cheek. "It is," she admits. "He won't let me wash the dishes, Grantaire."

He feigns confusion. "Gavroche?"

" _Combeferre_."

Grantaire laughs, bright and clear as a bell. "Well, it's a wonder you waited so long to run away. The things you've suffered, Éponine."

She shuts her eyes and leans in against him, pressing her face to his shoulder. "People aren't like that," she breathes against the sleeve of his shirt. "People don't _do_ that."

Grantaire sobers. He loops one arm around her back and lifts the other to stroke across her hair. "Not everyone is your parents, you know."

She makes a low, hurting sound and presses in tighter against him. "I don't think he's like Maman and Papa," she whispers, and that's true. He's nothing like them at all. But it doesn't change the fact that every good thing she's ever had in her life has eventually turned bad, in one way or another. Everything but Azelma and Gavroche, and she's had to fight like a wildcat for that, too. Nothing good ever lasts, that's the first, best lesson she ever learned at her parents' knee.

"I can't," she whispers against the fabric of Grantaire's shirt. "I can't _need_ him." Because maybe if she doesn't, maybe if she doesn't try to hold onto him too hard, the world won't come along and try to snatch him away from her. Maybe if she doesn't need him, he won't change.

Grantaire hums a thoughtful noise. His hand hesitates in stroking her hair, then resumes its gentle motions. "I can't say as I've ever had any success in telling my heart who to love and who not," he says. "But perhaps you'll have better luck than I."

She shuts her eyes against a fresh, stinging wave of tears. "I don't love him," she says, fingers curling tight on Grantaire's shirt. "I _don't_." If her first lesson was loss, then her second lesson was that -- loving someone only ever made you weak. It made you do stupid, reckless things for them, like run halfway across the city to wed a stranger.

She loves Azelma and she loves Gavroche, and that's always been enough for her. It has to be, because they have to come first.

Grantaire's silence feels damning. It stretches on until her misery is infinite, and then he sighs and says, "Okay. You don't love him," in that same humoring tone that adults like to take with children who are being unreasonable. "Why are you crying over him, then?"

She sniffs hard and presses her face in tighter against Grantaire's shirt. When she admits, "I don't know," her voice comes out small and petulant.

Grantaire is quiet again, then sighs. "Do you want more wine?"

She thinks about it a moment, then shakes her head without lifting it from his shoulder. Wine isn't going to do anything to calm the tumult of confusion raging inside her.

"Okay, then." He tightens his arm around her back and shifts beneath her. "Come on, come into the kitchen with me. I'll make tea."

That, at least, sounds promising. She lets him prod her to her feet as he gets to his own, then trails him into the kitchen, the blanket he draped over her shoulders still wrapped around and enveloping her. She doesn't understand anything about what she's feeling right now, but tea and a warm blanket and the company of a good friend sounds like everything she needs. She leans in Grantaire's doorway while he busies himself setting the kettle on the fire, and tries to let herself not think of Combeferre at all.

*

Eventually Grantaire manages to coax some supper into her, though the food sits like a lump of stone in her stomach. The hour's growing late and she knows that soon enough the necessity of sleep is going to force her into a decision, one way or another, even if Grantaire is very carefully not mentioning it.

She's still debating whether she should, if he won't, when a knock at the door makes them both jump, and makes Grantaire break off in the middle of a story about some improbable circumstance Bossuet had gotten into recently. She exchanges a glance with him.

"I think I've gotten more visitors today than I have in the last week," he says, his voice bright with forced levity, and gets to his feet to go answer the door.

She doesn't shrink back in her seat, but she does curl her fingers around the blanket's edges and tug it closer around her shoulders. Grantaire only cracks the door, not enough for her to see past him to who's come calling, but it's no surprise when she hears the low murmur of a familiar voice ask, "Is she here?"

She shuts her eyes and focuses on breathing past the panic that claws anew at her throat, on the quiet cadence of Grantaire's voice as he responds. "She's all right," Grantaire tells him, and Éponine fights the wild urge to laugh, because she doesn't feel like anything even remotely resembling _all right_. Grantaire adds, "She's safe," like he heard her thoughts. "Anything else, she's going to have to tell you herself."

"May I speak with her?" Combeferre asks, and Éponine's mouth goes dry with dread.

"When she's ready," Grantaire says. Éponine sags with relief, with overwhelming gratitude. "I'm sure she'll let you know when that time comes."

"Of course," Combeferre says, like he actually means it. "Only, could you ask her— The children are worried. Azelma's beside herself, and Gavroche is trying to hide it but he's fretting, too. Would you ask her what would be best for them? I could bring them here, if she'd prefer, but I wasn't sure what she'd—"

Éponine is on her feet, striding forward without thought, without even being aware of having made the decision. "You _left them alone_?" she demands, and only holds herself back a moment before ripping the door out of Grantaire's hands.

There's a moment of startled silence, and then a soft exhalation from the other side of the door. "Éponine," Combeferre says, and there's a world of relief in his voice. Then, quicker, "No, of course I didn't. I took them to Enjolras's. He agreed to watch them while I looked for you."

" _Enjolras_ did?" Grantaire says, his brows climbing.

"Courfeyrac was there. He may have influenced the decision."

And Grantaire says, "Ah," like that explains everything he needs to know about the situation.

"Éponine," Combeferre says again, through the door. He sounds so close, just a few inches of wood between them, but it feels like a chasm. "Please, may I come in?"

Grantaire's watching her, waiting for her answer. She swallows against the pain in her throat and whispers, "I'm not in any state to hear what you have to say, right now."

There's a sound from the other side of the door, a low noise that could mean anything. "I'm not here to talk," Combeferre says, and that makes her frown in confusion. "I only want to listen. I want to understand."

_That_ leaves her all at once feeling like she's been unmoored, tossed wildly across stormy seas with no anchor to steady her and no compass to give her a bearing. Her throat works in silence for a moment while Grantaire watches her, a quiet, patient question in his eyes.

She blows a sharp breath out and spins on her heel to stalk back to Grantaire's chair. She drops into it, hunched in on herself. "Fine," she says. "Grantaire, let him in."

He hesitates, his gaze searching hers. "Are you sure this is what you want?"

She's not, but she tightens her jaw all the same. "Let him in."

Grantaire steps back, swinging the door open wide enough to reveal Combeferre beyond it. He looks haggard, and his gaze sweeps across the room until it lands on Éponine. Relief washes across his face, followed quickly by alarm as he takes her in. He takes one swift step forward and then holds himself back with a visible effort. "Éponine. All you all right?"

She wants to laugh, wild and broken, but she thinks if she does she won't remember how to stop. "No."

Combeferre's face creases with concern. "Do you-- Will you tell me why?"

She clenches her fingers on the blanket, pulling it tighter around her shoulders. It's heaviness is a comfort, but she still feels cold. "What do you want, Combeferre? You said you're here to listen. What do you want me to say?"

He catches the back of the other chair, the one Grantaire had been sitting in earlier, and pulls it around until he can sit in it and he's right in front of her, leaning in with his elbows braced on his knees, watching her with a focus she hasn't seen from him before, not even with his work. "I'd like to understand why you left," he says quietly. "I have a guess, but it's only that. A hypothesis." His lips twitch with the hint of a self-deprecating smile. "I'd like to hear from you if I'm right or not, because it seems to me that it had something to do with asking you to do magic, but I can't imagine--"

Her throat closes off as soon as he says the word _magic_ , panic grabbing onto her with its icy claws. And as it does, Combeferre breaks off without her making a sound, his brows knitting together and his gaze searching hers.

"No," he murmurs with a tone that's a revelation. "It's not that. I thought it must be, but it's not the asking at all, is it?"

It takes a conscious effort to fill her lungs. "I don't know what you mean."

"You were always so quiet about it, so careful to do it where I couldn't see. I thought it was shyness, and thought if I let you know it was welcome and appreciated, you'd grow more confident." His gaze searches hers, looking for an answer she doesn't know how to give him. "You've been doing it more, lately. I thought I'd been right, and it had worked. Éponine, I wouldn't have ever asked it of you if it hadn't been in service to keeping Gavroche and Azelma safe. I knew that was important to you, and it seemed the most reliable way. I didn't mean to upset you."

She can't breathe. Her head is swimming, and the small, frantic gasps of air she manages to pull into her lungs aren't sufficient. Her hands are wrapped in the blanket so tight that her knuckles ache, but she can't make herself breathe and she can't make herself let go. Combeferre is watching her with that soft, open expression of his and it pulls at her, demanding an answer. "It wasn't—" Her voice comes out strangled, choking. "It wasn't the asking."

He studies her face for a long moment before he says, quietly, "It was the knowing."

Every instinct she's ever honed over the whole of her life tells her to shut up, to shut down, to push him away and prevaricate and deflect. The fine hairs along her arms and the back of her neck all stand on end, an urgent voice whispering in the back of her mind that she's treading on dangerous ground and the only safe escape is to retreat. But Combeferre is here and watching her and listening to her, and she owes him this much, doesn't she?

She could tell him it's nothing, and he's wrong about everything. And she thinks he'd accept it, if she was firm enough about it. But she knows she'd have to witness to the disappointment on his face, and she doesn't think she could bear that.

She has to swallow three times before she can make herself speak, and even then, she scarcely manages a whisper. "I've been doing magic for longer than I can remember. Since I was a baby."

Combeferre just listens and waits, all his attention focused upon her.

She wets her lips with the tip of her tongue and flounders for the right words to say. She doesn't know what they are, because she's never done this before. "For longer than I can remember," she says, "Maman and Papa have been taking the things I've spelled, and selling them, and telling me not to speak of it to anyone because it wasn't legal, and they'd be jailed if anyone knew. When I was young, they told me I was special, and clever, and strong." Her voice flees from her. She drops her gaze down to the blanket bunched across her lap and has to take a moment to find it again. "When I was older, they stopped pretending. They made me spell things for them, and it was never enough. And then Azelma came and she— I knew she had magic the day she was born. They knew not long after. And she was strong, stronger than I'd been at her age. She'll be stronger than I am in a few years. And she loves it so, more than I ever did. And Maman and Papa were sweet to her and coaxed charms from her, and it was just the same as they'd been with me except that Azelma loved it. She tried so hard to give them what they wanted from her and I knew they'd drain her until she was empty and hollow and broken, if they had the chance. And I knew she wouldn't ever stop them, because she loved it too well, and she loved them."

She breaks off, her breath catching in her throat, when Combeferre leans forward and takes her hand in his. He just holds it, just that, and she stares down for a moment at where his fingers wrap around hers, fighting against the weight of it all, crushing down against her. "She's a child," she whispers, watching where Combeferre's thumb sweeps a gentle arc, back and forth across the back of her hand. "It's the nature of children to want to please their parents. But she would have let them take everything from her, and I couldn't-- I couldn't let that happen."

"And so you came to me," he murmurs.

The laughter that bursts out of her is a shock, but isn't unwelcome. " _You_ came to _me_ ," she says.

He smiles, slow and warm and so real that it makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. "So I did."

She takes a breath. It feels like the first full one she's had in minutes. Maybe hours. "Combeferre," she says, and tightens her fingers around his. "I don't know what we would have done, if it weren't for you."

"You're very clever, Éponine," he says, still smiling gently at her. "You would have figured something out, I'm sure. And I would not even have known how much I was missing."

It makes her breath stutter all over again, which is just as well, because she wouldn't know what to say to him, even if she could speak.

"Why did you leave?" he asks her softly.

It's the same question he asked before, or almost. Before, he'd asked to understand, and she'd told him everything he'd needed to know to do so. Now he's asking why, and that answer is simpler, and clearer, and harder.

"I was afraid," she says, a breath of sound, and clings to his hand like it's an anchor, keeping her from drifting off course.

His fingers tighten on hers for the briefest of moments. "I'm sorry," he says, abruptly sounding haggard. "You must have been so lonely. I'm sorry I didn't do a better job of showing you that you could trust me."

It's so absurd it makes her want to laugh, or maybe cry. "Don't apologize," she tells him. "Please don't."

He looks like he wants to protest, but holds himself back. Instead, after a moment, he asks, "How great is the danger of your parents finding you?"

It's the fear that she's carried with her all this time, clawing at the edges of her mind like a rabid dog. She shudders to have it voiced so plainly, to have to confront it when she's spent so long trying to believe it wouldn't happen. "I don't know," she says, hoarse. "They haven't found us yet. That's promising. But I don't know."

He nods, his face so serious, so concerned. "There are measures that can be taken to help, I think. My friends-- I told you at the beginning, I think, that we want to help people. There's things we could do to try to help you. We could spread misinformation, to start. If your parents are looking for you, we could give them false trails to follow."

The thought of being one of Combeferre and Grantaire and their friends' pet causes makes her flinch instinctively. But it's important, for Azelma and Gavroche even more than her, and it's a good plan. Her parents have ears everywhere. The thought of whispering lies into them, of sending Maman and Papa running about Paris fruitlessly while she and the children elude them entirely, is a satisfying one.

And more than that, for the first time in a long time, she feels like if Maman and Papa showed up on her doorstep unexpectedly, she has options beyond simply ducking her head and being herded off like a wayward pup with her tail between her legs. She could fight for Azelma and Gavroche. She could keep them.

"We can talk about it," she tells Combeferre, the best she can manage, and he doesn't push, just nods like it's all he wanted, and after a moment asks, "Do you want to go home?"

Half an hour earlier, she'd have said no. Half an hour earlier, if he'd asked her that on Grantaire's doorstep, she'd have shut the door in his face. Now, it makes a fresh wave of tears prick at her eyes. _Home_ had never been a word that meant comfort, before now. "I think I would," she says, her voice wet with the tears she refuses to shed.

Combeferre smiles and lifts her hand, brushing a kiss against the back of it, right on the spot that his thumb has been caressing for half their conversation. "Then we will," he says, and rises to his feet.

She stands as well, somewhat less graceful with it, and untangles herself from Grantaire's blanket to leave it draped across the chair. She relinquishes Combeferre's hand long enough to go find him, leaning against the counter in his kitchen and not pretending, not with her, like he hasn't heard everything they've just said.

His gaze searches hers, his expression solemn, though she couldn't say what he's looking for. After a moment, he holds an arm out, and she steps in against him and lets him wrap her in a tight embrace. "Be happy, Éponine," he whispers against her hair. "That's all I want for you."

She takes several deep breaths, until she can do so without the air shuddering through her lungs. "I'm going to try," she promises.

"Good." He pulls back, then takes her face between his hands and presses a kiss to her brow. "And if you aren't, you know my door is always open to you. All three of you."

"I do know," she says, and means it. "Thank you." She kisses his cheek and then steps away. He lets his arms fall from around her, and just watches her as she turns and goes out to rejoin Combeferre.

"Ready?" he asks, his gaze following her as she moves across the room.

She slips her hand into his and gives it a squeeze. "Yes. I'm ready."

He glances past her and gives a nod of acknowledgment to Grantaire, and then she opens the door and they step out together into the night.

The air is frigid outside of Grantaire's home, and the wind is blowing, but Combeferre's hand is like a brazier in hers, and she doesn't feel the cold.

*

"Enjolras and Courfeyrac were tucking the children into bed when I left them," Combeferre says when they're halfway home. "We could go and bring them home, but we'd wake them up."

She considers the options for a few moments, until they reach the next street corner. "Will they be all right there until morning?"

"Yes. Courfeyrac is wonderful with children."

She glances at him sidelong. "But not Enjolras?"

It makes him smile to himself, a little. "Enjolras is the more responsible of the two. He'll make sure they're safe and well, though they'll like Courfeyrac better."

"Then we'll let them sleep," she decides, and they continue walking through the darkened, nearly empty streets towards home.

Her thoughts spin as they walk, as restless as the wind blowing around them. By the time they've reached their door and Combeferre has released her hand to unlock it, she's jittery with it.

If he notices, he gives nothing away. With the door unlocked, he pulls it open and waves her in before him with a smile. It's late and she's worn from it all, so she makes her way straight to the bedroom and begins unlacing her dress at once.

They've done this before, and they've perfected the art of keeping their backs to one another and their attention turned elsewhere as they undress and change into their nightclothes. Still, this time she's acutely aware of the sounds of Combeferre moving on the other side of the bed, just a few feet from her, the rustle of clothing and the knowledge of what he's doing, there out of her sight.

She doesn't let herself think on it too hard, and keeps an iron grip on her self-control until she's changed, the fabric of her nightshift warm and soft after the weight and stiffness of her dress. And then she hesitates with her back to the bed, with nothing to do but to turn and slip beneath the blankets. But she waits, listening to the noises coming from Combeferre's side of the bed, until she hears the whisper and sigh of his clothing go quiet.

She turns, then, shoulders held squared and stiff. He's in his nightclothes and turning down the blankets on the bed, and when she faces him he glances up at her and smiles.

She tries to return the smile, but she can scarcely manage more than a twitch of her lips before nerves overtake her. She climbs under the blankets and sits with them pooled about her lap, twisted to stare at the lamp where it burns on the bedside table. Moments ago, not looking was the harder thing to do, but now her chest feels flayed open, her heart pounding in the open air. She catches the fabric of her nightshift in her hand, clenched tight in a fist just above her breastbone, as though that could shield her heart from the exposure.

"Éponine," Combeferre says quietly behind her, and she turns to face him despite herself. He's watching her carefully. "Are you all right?"

"You--" She has to stop and wet her lips and clear her throat, before trying to speak again. "You've been encouraging me, with the spelling. All this time, you've been trying to encourage me."

His expression softens with a smile. "Not succeeding as well as I'd hoped, it seems. But yes. I was trying."

It just makes the crack in her chest open wider. She's covered from neck to ankles by her nightshift and the blankets, but he smiles at her and she feels as though everything within her has been laid open for his examination, as fragile as spun sugar. She feels as though a single harsh word might break something in her, feels like she's done something she'd always known she shouldn't in allowing herself to be exposed like this. But he just smiles softly at her, and watches her with a gentle warmth in his eyes, and his hands are tender when he reaches out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear.

She turns to him, trembling and uncertain, and reaches out blindly. She ends up with a hand on his arm and the other spread wide across his chest. He's warm beneath the fabric of his nightshirt, and his chest rises and falls a little with his steady breathing, and he watches her with curiosity and patience, like he's content to wait and see what she'll do, now that she's done this much, and bridged this gap that they've preserved between them.

Her hands curl on the fabric of his shirt. She feels like she's casting about in the dark, not afraid but lost all the same, and searching for a thread that will guide her back to somewhere familiar. And Combeferre is there, sitting in bed beside her, a solid, comforting presence beneath her hands, and he's the surest, steadiest thing she knows.

Something shifts in his expression as he watches her, some small uncertainty, a question written in his eyes. He takes a careful breath and starts to say, "Éponine—" and oh god, she's so tired of talking.

She moves without thought, leaning in and up and pressing her mouth to his, and his voice cuts off with a sharp sound of surprise.

His lips are soft against hers, parted slightly in surprise, and the rise-and-fall cadence of his breathing beneath her hand hitches, and then quickens. She can feel the rapid _thump-thump-thump_ of his heart against his breastbone, and it's steadying. It feels like a light cutting through the darkness, guiding her forward. She moves the hand on his arm up to grasp the back of his neck and kisses him.

The warmth of his lips on hers is a balm, soothing everything that's been left raw and jagged by the past day. He makes a quiet sound against her mouth and brings a hand up to cup her jaw. His lips are almost tentative as they move against hers, seeking softly. She presses in against his chest and opens for him.

In an instant, the kiss turns to something deep and hungry. Combeferre makes another sound against her mouth, harsher this time, and presses one hand to the small of her back to hold her in against him. He's eager and intent about it, and the fire that ignites between them is good. It feels cleansing, feels purgative. It feels so good not to have to _think_.

They spend long, electric moments without any need for speech or thought. Éponine's breath grows thick and her body warm, her skin prickling pleasantly beneath the weight of Combeferre's hands.

When her teeth catch his lip, he sucks in air, then lets it out all at once on a long groan. His muscles shift beneath her touch, the hand on her back sliding so his arm wraps all the way around her and he's holding her in close against his chest. The hand on her jaw slips up into her hair and he moves, bearing her down until her back hits the mattress and he's above her, solid and heavy and just a little bit terrifying.

She makes a sharp sound into the kiss, unhappiness at the little crystal of ice forming in the center of her chest, despite the heat racing through her. She pushes her fingers through his hair and kisses him harder, chasing the heat that will melt it away.

His chest rumbles against hers, a quiet laugh like he's so happy he can't contain himself. He tries to draw back, his lips already moving against hers to try to say something, but she twists strands of his hair around her fingers and tugs him back in. Still, he breathes her name against her lips, soft and reverent.

The coldness within her grows sharper, and so cold that it burns. She breaks away with a gasp, her hands clenching tight against his nape and the back of his head. She whispers his name, she thinks, but she can't hear her own voice past the pounding of her pulse in her ears.

He must hear something in her voice that she didn't mean to be there, because he draws back and looks down at her, his eyes so dark with worry that it makes her chest hurt. "Are you all right?" he asks her softly.

She shuts her eyes and makes her hands open, makes her release his hair. As she pulls them back, he slips his hand into one of them and holds onto it like it's something precious. "I think— I—"

She's being so stupid. They're wed, aren't they? And he wants her, that much has become clear enough in the past minutes. Why shouldn't they take this pleasure in each other? What cause has she to go cold at the feel of him above her, wanting her, whispering her name in the dark?

"I'm sorry," she finishes on a breath, and he shifts his weight off of her, rolling onto his side so that the only place they're touching is where his hand is wrapped through hers. That just makes the warmth that's left within her fade away, until all that's left is the cold. She tightens her hand around his, afraid he means to take that from her too, but he stays just as he is, close beside her but not touching.

"Are you all right?" he asks her again.

She swallows hard, whispers, "I don't know."

He's quiet for a moment, then offers quietly, "I could go sleep on my cot?"

She has to fight back a bubble of hysterical laughter, has to stop herself from saying, _No you can't, your workshop's been exploded_. They cleaned up the glass and the chemicals, but it's going to take them days longer before they're able to get everything in there set back to rights. But that's not the answer that matters, so she says instead, small and quiet and painfully honest, "Please don't."

"Okay," he says. "Okay." His hand is still sure around hers and she's so afraid he'll let go, that he'll withdraw because she pushed him away and she'll be left to her side of the bed, curled up alone around that open, raw space in her chest. She threads her fingers through his and holds on.

He gets a thoughtful, considering look when she does. A moment passes and he doesn't pull away, and then another and he shifts, slowly, like she's some skittish wild animal he doesn't want to frighten away. He closes the distance between them incrementally, slides an arm beneath her and around her back, watching her face all the while, like he's waiting for something.

She doesn't know what it is, so she doesn't know how to give it to him. Her heart flutters and speeds with renewed trepidation, but he doesn't lean in to kiss her again, just slowly, slowly, wraps her in his arms and draws her in, until she's held close against his chest with her head tucked beneath his chin.

She shuts her eyes and lets all the air out of her lungs on a long exhale. She tips her head forward so her brow is pressed to the little hollow between his collarbones and she can hear the beating of his heart, slow and steady and sure.

"Is this all right?" he whispers, sliding one arm up her back to brush his fingers through her hair.

"Yes." She keeps his hand in hers, held fast, but with the other grasps a handful of his shirt and holds onto that, too. He's warm and solid and strong against her, around her. She leans her cheek against his chest and feels the last tendrils of fear melt away. Held close like this, his chest pressed to hers, that raw, fragile place inside her that she'd cracked open and exposed feels just as safe as when she'd kept it deep and close and secret.

*

She wakes in the morning impossibly warm, still wrapped up in Combeferre's arms like he held her all night. There's an ache in her chest that has nothing to do with ice or fear at all.

There's no sneaking out of bed to start the day, not this morning. Not when he's holding her so closely, both arms around her though she can't imagine how he's kept the one beneath her from turning to pins and needles from her weight. So she stays, breathing carefully and trying not to disturb him, and trying to reconcile herself to a world where she might wake up in the mornings held close like she's something cherished.

She tries not to wake him, but all the same, it isn't more than a few minutes by her reckoning before he shifts against her and the tempo of his breathing changes. A moment after that, he blinks awake and loosens one arm from around her to rub the grit from his eyes.

A brilliant smile breaks across his face when he sees her, awake and looking back at him. "Good morning." His voice is a low rumble that she can feel through his chest. "How did you sleep?"

She clears her throat before trying to speak. "I slept well, thank you. And you?"

His smile spreads, as bright as the sun. "Perfectly." He brushes the backs of his fingers across her cheek, where she must have had a stray hair clinging. "Are you ready to get up?"

She hesitates before answering. He's never posed the question before — he's never had the opportunity — and lazing about in bed isn't a luxury that she's ever allowed herself. It's a tempting proposition, especially with his warmth still surrounding her. It's going to be cold and lonely outside of their bed, once they part.

He's watching her face closely, though she doesn't know what he might be seeing there. "We could sleep a little longer," he says, like he's offering a gift but unsure if she'll accept it. "It's still early."

It isn't. The sun's up, at least enough to brighten the room. But she wants to ignore the lie and let him convince her, wants to lay her head back down on his arm and let herself sink back into sleep.

She wants to, but she shakes her head all the same. "We should go get the children, before they worry."

Combeferre doesn't argue, just nods and unwraps his arms from around her. And she does feel cold, and lonely, which is ridiculous when he's still so close that she could reach a hand out and touch him. But she slides out of bed and briskly begins to dress.

She can hear him doing the same on the other side of the bed. And they've shared kisses now, and might have shared more if she hadn't been so ridiculous. They slept wrapped in each other's arms like lovers. Like husband and wife. If ever she had the license to watch him as he changed, it's now. But she can't quite bring herself to turn and risk a glance, just ducks her head and tries to get her sleepy fingers to work on her buttons.

She's too focused on making her fingers work and on herding her thoughts back from their wanderings, and so she doesn't hear Combeferre finish dressing, doesn't hear him move, doesn't realize that he's approached until she feels his touch on her shoulder, and she jumps.

He looks a little taken aback, but mostly startled, when she turns to face him. He pulls his hands away then holds them awkwardly like he's not sure what to do with them now. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean--" He takes a step back.

She lets out a sharp breath, feeling foolish. "Don't, please," she tells him earnestly. "You only surprised me, that's all."

Some of the tension eases out of his shoulders, though he still doesn't close any of the distance he'd put between them. "You looked like you were having trouble," he says, and gestures to where she's still only half buttoned up. "I was going to ask if you wanted help."

The thought of it makes her heart race all over again. "I-- I don't think my fingers have quite woken up yet, is all." She tries again to fasten the buttons, but beneath the weight of his attention she continues to fumble and make slow progress. She bends her head to her task, biting back oaths beneath her breath.

Combeferre moves slowly, giving her plenty of time to react as he steps in towards her and reaches out. She stills with her hands on the buttons, then drops them away when he moves his own to them. There, though, he hesitates, until she frowns and glances up at him, and he can meet her gaze.

"May I?"

She lets out another breath, long and slow this time, and nods. Her voice won't work, and it's all she can do. But it satisfies him, and he works with easy, deft movements to finish buttoning her dress. "There," he says, his voice warm with satisfaction, and pulls her in with his hands on her shoulders to press a kiss to the middle of her brow. "You look perfect. Shall we go?"

She coughs and clears her throat, and nods. "I just need my shoes," she says, and hurries off to go find them, before he can take it into his head to help her with those too. She's certain she wouldn't survive it.

When they reach Enjolras's, the children are awake. Courfeyrac is entertaining Gavroche with some sort of animated tale that makes his eyes wide as saucers and his face bright with eagerness, and Azelma is holding a very intent conversation with Enjolras. They all stop what they're doing as Combeferre lets himself in, so Éponine can't be sure what they were conversing about, but Enjolras looks as startled and impressed by Azelma as Éponine thinks he ought to be, so it all seems as well as it can be.

Azelma cries out her name and runs to her as soon as she sees her, throwing her arms about Éponine's legs and holding on hard. Éponine pries her loose just enough that she can drop to her knees and hug her properly.

"I'm sorry," she murmurs, and Gavroche's gaze is on her even though he hasn't left where he's sitting with Courfeyrac, so she makes her voice loud enough to carry to him. He wouldn't ever admit to it, but she's sure he must have been at least as worried as Azelma, to watch her so closely. "I didn't mean to scare you."

"I wasn't scared," Gavroche says, but he sounds even more belligerent than usual, which belies him.

"I was," Azelma admits on a whisper, and makes fists in the fabric of Éponine's dress. "Are you all right?"

"Oh sweetheart." Éponine clutches her close against her chest, her heart aching. "I'm just fine. I didn't want you to worry." She gathers herself and sets Azelma back so that she can stand, squares her shoulder and says briskly, as cheerfully as she can manage, "Well. Do you two want to go home?"

"I guess," Gavroche says, which is the most enthusiasm she's ever heard from him for going home, and makes her want to pull him into an embrace as well.

Azelma slips her hand into Éponine's and quietly says, "Yes, please."

She nods and holds onto Azelma's hand tightly. "We'll go, then, and while we walk, why don't you tell us what you'd like for breakfast."

The prospect of food makes Gavroche hop up to his feet and join them by the door. It's the work of a few moments, after that, to get them bundled into their coats and to say their thank yous and good-byes to Enjolras and Courfeyrac.

They stop by the market on their way home, so they can pick up the things they'll need to make what the children want for breakfast, and Éponine feels bad enough about worrying them that she buys more than she should, and buys treats for them that she ordinarily wouldn't. Gavroche is pleased by the indulgence, but Azelma seems troubled, like she knows it's a bribe meant to assuage Éponine's guilt.

Combeferre slips his hand into Éponine's, while she's distracted trying to figure out what might reassure Azelma, and gives it a squeeze. "They love you," he murmurs, only loud enough for her to hear.

She takes a careful breath, fighting against the band constricting around her chest. "I know that."

"All they want from you is for you to be happy."

"I think Gavroche, at least, would give you a different list." She glances sidelong at him and finds him smiling.

He makes a sound that could be agreement or acknowledgment or anything at all, really. "I want you to be happy, too," he says, softly offered instead of arguing her point.

She can't quite manage to make herself speak past the sudden thickness in her throat, but she squeezes his hand and focuses on just breathing, all the way back home.

When they get there, there's the chaos of the children clattering through their home like they haven't seen it for a year, and the task of cooking to keep busy with, and it makes it easy to avoid having to comment on what Combeferre had said. They cook together, and then herd the children to the table to eat, and then clean together, and Éponine waits for the awkwardness to come upon them, or for Combeferre to turn to her and say it again, or demand an answer after having said it the first time.

The awkwardness never comes, and when Combeferre turns to her and she braces herself, all he says is, "I meant it, you know, about wanting to keep them safe. Would you come look at my workshop with me, and see if there are any charms or spells that can be done to make sure of it?"

It's a relief to have a task at hand, and a definite direction in which to point themselves. She goes with him, joins him in the workshop and stands there considering the doorway with him.

The wall's somewhat damaged, though still sound. It'll need a new plastering, though, at the least, and there are singed bits on the frame of the door, and a few shards of glass glinting from where they'd embedded themselves into the wood.

"There's two different charms we're going to need, at the very least" she says thoughtfully, reaching a hand out to run it along the doorframe, though she's careful to avoid the places with the broken glass. "One to contain an explosion, and another for any gases or fumes that might poison the air."

"Can you make a barrier spell of some sort?" He's standing beside her, close enough she can feel the warmth off of him. "A magical door, of sorts, to hold any air in should the physical door be damaged?"

She turns to stare at him. "You mean, will I make a charm that will keep the poison trapped in here with you, so you can die all the quicker? No."

It makes him frown, and she can't tell if it's an unhappy frown, or just a thoughtful one. "It would keep the rest of you protected."

"I will not craft a charm that protects part of my family, at the expense of the rest of it."

He blinks at her rapidly and she thinks he might say something, thinks what she said might have been a mistake, but after a moment he only draws a breath and nods once, decisive. "An alternative, then," he says, and they resume their work.

She's witnessed him bent to a task before, but always at a distance, standing outside of it. It's something altogether different to be working at it beside him, to witness up close the way his gaze pierces when he's intent upon an idea, or how it goes soft and distant while he considers something, like he's reading equations written upon the air, invisible to her untutored eye. She learns the way he catches at her hand when inspiration strikes him, and how he grins with fierce delight as their plans begin to come together, and they seize upon a solution that will address all the problems at hand.

She's breathless with it by the time they came up for air, and feels a step outside her own body as they retreat to the kitchen for tea. She couldn't say what time of the day it is, or how long they spent in their strategizing for how to make the workshop safe for everyone. It feels as though it's been a minute, or perhaps a week.

"We can pick it up again after supper," he says, while they both lean against the counters as they wait for the water to boil. Éponine feels as worn down as if they _had_ been at it for a week, and wonders if Combeferre feels the same or if it's only her inexperience showing. "Or tomorrow, when we can come at it fresh."

"We haven't even done anything yet," she protests, though she can't manage to put much strength behind it. They've talked and they've thought, but they haven't _done_ anything all day.

Combeferre glances at her, his gaze sharp. "What we're doing, it's still work. It's still tiring." She can only make a low, inarticulate sound of agreement at that. She feels tired down to her very bones. "More so than physical work, I think, sometimes. Rest and a meal will do us both a world of good."

She can't quite stomach the thought of going back to it just yet, even if they aren't doing anything that seems worthy of such exhaustion, so she lets the matter lie.

They make a simple supper, by wordless accord, and when they've finished eating Éponine recalls that Combeferre said they might return to their strategizing after the meal, and every fiber of her being seems to wilt at the thought. So they end up on the settee, instead, and Éponine's too weary to hold herself back when she ends up leaning in heavily against Combeferre's side, her head on his shoulder, scarcely able to keep her eyes open for long enough to make it to the children's bedtime, and then send them off to their beds.

"Come on," Combeferre says, once they've run off, and shifts his shoulder beneath her cheek until he's nudged her begrudgingly upright. "You won't thank me for it in the morning, if I let you sleep here all night."

She's half asleep already, and mumbles a sleepy protest, but he coaxes her to her feet and guides her down the hall to their room, and then keeps her standing long enough to undress her down to her shift.

She won't thank herself in the morning, either, if she sleeps in it, but at the moment she's too tired to care. She crawls into bed clad in only her shift, and when Combeferre circles the bed to slide in on his side, she inches across into the middle and wraps herself around him.

He goes lax in her arms almost at once, and gives a long, soft sigh like he's content as he curls his arms around her back. His arm makes a fine pillow beneath her cheek, she thinks, and it's the last conscious thought she has before sleep overtakes her.

*

They spend days developing and revising their plan until they land on something, and if Éponine had thought that the work of planning had been nearly done at the end of the first day, she quickly realizes her mistake. Now they spend half a week making sure that she can weave the charms that they'll need with the precision that's required, and then testing the charms to ensure they function as expected. It's exhausting work, and exhilarating, and too often she glances up from weaving a charm into a flask or a silver dish to discover that Combeferre has rolled his sleeves up past his elbows and is leaning in toward her, so focused on what she's doing that he doesn't even notice that her attention has wandered, or that she's been arrested by the sight of him.

Eventually, their planning and their practice come together, and they sit back almost as one and consider the small clay tile on the worktable before them. It's a foot away and Éponine can practically feel the magic vibrating off of it, but she wonders what Combeferre can sense from it, if it's anything other than clay to him.

She looks at him, chews on the edge of her lip for a moment, and then asks, "Should we test it out?"

His face is bright, happy as he nods his agreement. They've already placed a nail in the doorframe, and he waves her through the door, then stands inside and hangs the charm from the nail.

A prickle runs across her skin, like an unexpected chill wind on a warm day. Combeferre's considering the charm, though, and then her, through the door. "Is it in place?"

When she nods, his face seems to glow with satisfaction. "Wait right there," he says, and walks over to get something from the table. He comes back holding a round metal bearing in his hands, meets her gaze with his brow lifted and waits for her nod, before he tosses the bearing to her.

Just when it should pass through the doorframe, it bounces away instead, as though he'd thrown it at a wall, and clatters to the floor and rolls away into the workshop.

Éponine hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until all the air in her lungs bursts out of her on a delirious laugh. Combeferre bends to retrieve the bearing, but when he straightens his gaze seeks hers out and seems to pin her in place and beckon her forward all at once.

She steps forward to go to him. She wants to throw her arms around his neck and hold onto him as she laughs from the sheer, giddy delight of success, but just at the edge of the doorframe, she's stopped. She reaches a hand out toward him through the opening, and feels as though she's pressed her palm to a wall made of ice.

Combeferre notices almost at once, and reaches over to take the tile from the door. The moment it's off its nail, another chill runs across her skin and the magic vanishes as though it had never been there. She steps through and takes the tile from his hands, frowning down at it. "It's still going to need a few more adjustments, I see," she says.

Combeferre laughs quietly. "One or two, perhaps." He places his hand in hers, covering the tile so that she'll lift her gaze and blink up at him. "Leave that for tomorrow. You've accomplished something incredible, and we should celebrate."

She lets him take the charm from her, and set it down on the table behind them. "It's just a charm," she says helplessly. "I've been making them since I was a child."

The look he sends her seems somewhere between bemused and bewildered. "Child's play, she says," he murmurs, like he's speaking to himself, though there's laughter lurking in his voice. "As though it's a matter of no consequence to bend the very laws of physics themselves."

She tries to protest, even as he coaxes her out of the workshop, but the more she tries to explain to him how simple a matter it really is, that it's like handing a child a lump of clay and then expressing amazement when they fashion it into a lumpy, misshapen bowl, the brighter the light in his eyes gets, and the warmer his expression grows, until she breaks off abruptly, flustered by the fact that he's looking at her like she's something incredible, all in her own right.

"I'm sorry," he says, as soon as she stammers into silence. "I didn't mean to embarrass you."

"It's not that. It's— You're flattering me, and it's kind, but it's not the truth."

His eyebrows climb a fraction. It makes him look quietly skeptical. "I've witnessed you do incredible things, this past week," he says, and if he sounded chiding at all, she'd bristle, but he only sounds admiring. "And I've watched the care you put into it, and the nuance and skill with which you craft your charms. I can't even fathom how the things you do are possible in the first place. The fact that it's easy to you, that it seems straightforward, only speaks more to the skill you have with it, not less."

It makes her want to fidget, to hear him say such kind things to her, to glance sidelong at him and see him watching her like he means every word of it. She's never loved magic for its own sake, the way Azelma does. She's good at it, and there was satisfaction to be had in that, when she was younger, but not joy. And then she grew up and it became a burden. She wonders if this is how Azelma feels every time she weaves a charm, if she feels the way Éponine does with Combeferre sitting next to her and quietly, sincerely telling her she's wonderful.

Her face feels hot enough to catch fire. She presses the backs of her hands to her cheeks, but it does little too cool them down.

His gaze lingers on her for a moment, silent, and then he sits back and twists a bit on the settee, facing her squarely, and says, "All right, tell me. How'd you make that work, so that bearing bounced off of thin air?"

She frowns a little, and pulls at a stray thread poking out of a seam on her dress. She'll need to remember to mend it later, before it becomes a proper hole. "I charmed it. You saw me, you were there with me."

He nods encouragingly. "I saw you do something, but I couldn't have said what. I suspect you saw more than I did. So tell me how the magic works, that you can make it do something like that."

She hears _tell me how the magic works_ and it echoes around and around through her mind. She wants to laugh a little, because he might as well ask her to explain how the stars hang in the sky. But she also wants to grasp onto those words and tell him absolutely everything she can possibly think of to say, because she thinks for the first time she understands what he's been asking her all week long, in a hundred different ways. _Why did you do it that way_ and _would it make a difference if_ and _is something like this possible_ , and all this time, that's been the underlying question behind it all. _Tell me how it works_.

Wrangling her thoughts into some semblance of order, something that makes sense and could be conveyed to someone who's never worked a charm before in his life, feels like chasing fireflies while blindfolded. Thoughts slip out of her grasp and slide around into messy, convoluted patterns, and eventually she clears her throat and tries, "It's like how water can be water, or it can be ice, or it can be steam. But all the time, it's still really just water. It's easier with water than with air, but the idea's the same. You can coax the water and remind it what it's like to be ice, to be cold and heavy and strong, and convince it of all the reasons why it wants to be ice again. And if you weave the charm right, when it touches the water, the water will remember, and you can freeze it solid in the middle of a summer's day."

Combeferre sits forward abruptly. "You _can?_ "

She stares at him a little. "You've been watching me do this for a week."

"Yes, but—" He leans toward her. He's got that brightness in his eyes that she's grown familiar with, that she's come to understand means his thoughts are whirling faster than a child's top. "It was always my understanding that magic was some sort of force in the world, something invisible but capable of acting upon objects, like gravity. But you're talking about a _phase change_ , that— That takes incredible amounts of energy. Where does it come from?" His gaze focuses in on her. "Does it make you tired, when the charms perform their function?"

"Crafting them does, sometimes, depending on the charm."

"But not—" He gestures toward the workshop. "That charm you made, for the door. It doesn't work only once, right?"

She shakes her head, mystified by half the things he's saying. But he's happy and he's interested, he's listening to what she tells him and asking her questions in response, and she can't remember magic ever feeling like this. She can't remember the last time anyone took this much interest in her, or what she had to say. "It'll work as long as it's hanging on the door."

"But you don't feel it, when it does its job? It doesn't siphon the energy it needs from you, in order to effect the phase change to hold back anything that tries to pass through it?"

"It's not like that," she says, and frowns as she tries to figure out a way to explain it that will make sense to someone who's never crafted a charm before. He's making it sound so complicated, when it feels like such a straightforward thing. "It doesn't only start working when something tries to pass through it. It's like a door. The door's there, whether you're bouncing something off of it or not."

That only makes him look even more astounded. "You were talking about adjusting the charm, to let things in but not out, so long as it's active."

He says it like he's waiting for her to tell him he's wrong, and it makes her frown. "If something happens, I won't be trapped outside and unable to help you. What if you're hurt, and you can't get to the charm to remove it? I have to be able to get to you."

He reaches out and covers her hand with his, giving it a gentle squeeze. "I'm only trying to understand. Matter can't exist in two phases at once. You can't make water that is both frozen and liquid simultaneously." His expression clouds with uncertainty, his brows furrowing with it, and his voice is softer and more bewildered as he asks, " _Can_ you?"

She blows out a sharp breath and turns her hand over to squeeze his in return. "It's not a perfect comparison."

"Okay." He holds onto her hand like she's a tether keeping him steady in unfamiliar waters, and it's such a strange position to find herself in that she could laugh, except that he's looking very earnest and very intent. "Explain it to me again. I'll try harder this time."

She starts over, and tries again. She's not sure how well she does at it, trying to explain the workings of something that's always come naturally to her, but by the time evening turns toward night, Combeferre's questions fade off into a thoughtful contemplation. She sits next to him, leaning in a little against his shoulder, and just enjoys the quiet and the company.

Eventually, he takes a breath like there's something on his mind, and she turns toward him, waiting for it.

"My work," he says. "We've talked a little about the problems I've been struggling with, in the course of it."

She nods. "Variable manipulation, right?"

He looks startled, blinking at her, and then a smile breaks across his face. "That's exactly right. Do you think— You can say no, I don't want you to feel obligated. But once we've got the workshop back together, would you be interested in helping me with it?"

She thinks about it, frowning a little. "But I don't know science."

"You know more than you give yourself credit for," he says, "and you learn fast. But in any case, that's not the point. _I_ know science, but this is a delicate experiment and I'm starting to suspect I lack either the equipment or the finesse to perform it in the way that I need. But maybe, if I explained the problem to you, if you wanted to, we could devise a magical solution to isolate the variables until the experiment has run its course?"

There's a small, distant part of her mind that screams, because she'd always known this would happen, hadn't she? Once someone learns you have magic, all they ever want is for you to do it for them, again and again until they've drained you dry. But that voice had been the only thing she heard when she'd first come here, newly-wed and a stranger to her husband. It had drowned out everything else, but it's grown quieter as the weeks passed, as she and Combeferre came to know one another better. It's a small thing now, a keening cry in the back of her mind that's almost easy to ignore.

It's easier when she looks at Combeferre sitting there across from her, his face earnest and hopeful but not expectant. She does know him now, and she knows him enough to trust that she could say no and he would accept it. He wouldn't fume and snarl, like her parents. He wouldn't wheedle, like Montparnasse in the market.

"I think," she says carefully, "that if _you_ lack the finesse for your experiments, then I'm going to be hopeless at it. But I can try, if you can tell me what you need."

His face is bright with happiness, and with the surprise of a boon unexpectedly granted, and it's that that silences the last wails of the screaming voice for good, and everything in her mind dies down to a quiet hum of contentment.

"You're brilliant," he says with feeling. "I don't know what I ever did to deserve you," and a different sort of screaming overtakes her mind anew.

She feels herself go hot all the way down to her throat, her cheeks burning with it. She brings her hands up to cover her face and hides from that bright, adoring look in his eyes. She can't bear it. No one in her life has ever looked at her the way he does. "You saved me," she says helplessly into her palms. "And I— I'm not."

"Éponine," he says, like she's somehow wounded him by acknowledging what he's done for her and her family. "I did nothing of the sort. You felt trapped. I saw a door, and opened it for you. But you're the one who walked through it. You saved yourself."

She wants to cry, all at once, and she's not sure if the tears are happy or sad or something else entirely. "You married me, and gave up the chance to marry someone you loved instead."

"Éponine," he says again, softer. "It was the best decision I've ever made."

Her breathing catches, then hiccups. He draws her hands down gently off her face and gathers her in his arms. She curls in against him, soaking in his warmth. When he slides a hand along her jaw, tipping her face up, and kisses her, her breath stutters and she curls her hands into his hair.

It's soft and chaste and so sweet it makes her chest ache, and when he draws away after a few moments and tucks her head beneath his chin, just holding her, she lets out a tremulous breath and lets the even rhythm of his heartbeat beneath her ear steady her.

"Do you want to go to bed?" he asks her, and then his breath catches. "I didn't mean— It's been a long day, and you must be tired."

It wasn't that long ago that she would have balked at the accidental suggestion in his words, but now she just nods without lifting her head from his chest, and only rouses reluctantly when he shifts beneath her to stand.

They make their way to the bedroom, and when they climb into bed, this time Combeferre is the one who reaches out to her, his expression uncertain. She slides into his arms, marveling quietly at how easy it's become to do so, and falls asleep with his warmth wrapped around her and his heartbeat like a lullaby, steady and comforting and sure.

*

She expects commentary from Azelma, braces for it and tells herself it's deserved, after all the times she refused to let Azelma make her magic known. But it doesn't come right away, and when it does, it's not in the form she expects.

Éponine notices her watching them sometimes, quiet and thoughtful. And a few days after they've begun working together on Combeferre's experiments, when they've come out from the workshop to make dinner together, Éponine turns from stoking up the coals in the oven to find Azelma hovering in the doorway, her hands tucked into the folds of her skirts and bouncing on the balls of her feet, looking determined.

Éponine goes to her and pulls her in against her side, gives her a kiss on the crown of her head. "What's the matter?"

Azelma shakes her head, but says, "I have something for him," quietly, just for Éponine's ears. "A gift. I made it for him." And suddenly Azelma's gaze is on her instead of Combeferre, reserved and worried, and Éponine understands, because if Azelma made him something, then it's magic. " _You've_ been doing spells in front of him. We don't have to keep it secret anymore. Not here, not where it's just us. Can't I give it to him?"

Éponine has to breathe carefully to loosen the sudden constriction around her chest. She pulls Azelma into her side again, hugging her tight, and tries to keep her voice even when she says, "Go on, I bet he'll love it."

Azelma slides her a sidelong glance. "You don't even know what it is."

Éponine just smiles and ruffles her hair, coaxing an answering smile from her. "I know you made it. And I know you. If he doesn't love it, he's not half so smart as he gives himself credit for."

It makes her glow with happiness, and gives her what she needs to push off the balls of her feet and cross the kitchen to where Combeferre is presiding over a growing pile of chopped vegetables. He bends down when she says something to him, this time meant just for him.

He crouches down in front of her, and she pulls out something she's been gripping, hidden where she had her hand pressed into her skirt, and Combeferre's whole expression goes soft and warm and surprised. He lifts his hands and cups them, holds them out toward her, and she puts the charm into his palms.

Éponine can't see what it is she's given him, but when he speaks, it's not so hushed. She can hear him say, "This is beautiful, Azelma. Will you tell me what it does?"

She doesn't catch Azelma's answer, but she can't miss the rapt, touched look on his face, or the way he hangs on her every word, the way they exchange quiet conversation. Éponine leaves them to it, and moves around them to finish preparing their dinner.

Afterwards, when they've all moved out to the sitting room, Éponine pulls Azelma down onto her lap, arms wrapped around her in an embrace, and murmurs into her ear, "What'd I tell you?"

Azelma twists in her arms to face her, her face glowing with happiness. "He liked it a lot," she whispers, like it's a precious secret.

"Of course he did." Éponine draws her in, her head to Éponine's chest, and holds her tight.

"Éponine?" Azelma curls her arms around Éponine's waist and presses in close.

"Hmm?"

She tips her face up and gives her a slow, brilliant smile. "I'm glad we trust him," she whispers, and settles right back down again, like she can't even tell the way her quiet words have brought Éponine near to tears.

"Me, too," Éponine whispers back against her sister's hair, and holds her tightly. "I am too, sweetheart."

*

Over the days that follow, it becomes commonplace to see Azelma leaned into a whispered exchange with Combeferre, or pressing a charm into his hands and turning pink as he exclaims over it. Every time, he looks as shocked and moved by the gift as he was the first time, and every time, Azelma turns pink with delight over his appreciation.

A small collection of them begins to grow on the table on his side of the bed, beads and shells and strips of fabric knotted along their length, whatever she had at hand to weave the spell into. Sometimes, as they're retiring to bed, Éponine will catch him skimming his fingers across the collection, a soft smile playing about the corners of his mouth, and it's all she can do not to throw herself across his lap and kiss him until they both forget how to breathe.

She lies in his arms one night, their knees slotted together because it's a chill night and it's a more efficient way to share their warmth. She can't see his face with the way her head is tucked against his chest, but she thinks from the cadence of his breathing that he's not asleep yet either, so she murmurs to him, "Will you tell me what she's been giving you?"

He gives a low hum, soft and happy. "She hasn't told you?"

"I haven't asked. I didn't want to dissuade her." She'd been terrified, gripped by a whole new sort of fear, that if she wasn't still and quiet and careful in the face of this new, precious miracle, that it would burst like a soap bubble to a touch, and Azelma would stop being so happy and so free, and go back to being somber and hollow-eyed once more.

Combeferre's chest rumbles beneath her cheek with a quiet chuckle. "Today, she gave me one that would scare away the monsters beneath our bed."

It startles a laugh out of Éponine. She draws back just enough that she can tip her head and look up at him. "Do we have monsters beneath our bed?"

Combeferre's expression is serious and his words earnest, but his eyes dance with merriment and delight. "Well not _anymore_ , of course. We have the charm."

Éponine laughs again, and leans her head back down on his chest. "Of course," she says, and that's that.

For a time, sleep had come easier to her within the circle of Combeferre's arms, compared to when they had slept with their backs to each other and the inches of mattress between them had felt cold and vast. But soon she finds sleep elusive once more, for altogether different reasons than before. Sometimes, she still drifts to sleep almost at once, lulled by his warmth and the surety of his arms around her. But sometimes, that same embrace makes her heart pound, and she remains wide awake with her thoughts spinning long after he's fallen asleep.

On those nights, she lies there in the dark, listening to the easy rhythm of his breathing, and strokes her fingers lightly over the hair on his arm, where it's wrapped across her stomach, or across his chest, if they've wrapped themselves together face-to-face, or she'll trail her touch up and down the valley of his spine, fingertips bumping across his vertebrae, and she'll marvel at how readily he holds her, and how easily.

He hasn't pressed her for more than this, not once. He's kissed her a few times, but he's always been gentle with it, and every time she's pulled back to gulp in air, he's smiled and brushed his thumbs over her cheeks, or kissed her brow, or tucked her hair back behind her ear, and then started talking about dinner, or their work, or the children, like it's a perfectly natural segue, like he's content with those few kisses and needs nothing more.

She thinks about the way he never asks Azelma for a charm, not once, but how every time she gives one to him, he cups his hands for her and holds it with a careful, delicate touch, and acts as though she has bestowed him with the most wondrous of miracles. And she thinks about the way his arms curl around her as they sleep, holding her close but not too tight, and how he always looks a little startled when she slides into his embrace at night, and the way his hands are so careful on her, and she wants to cry, or to laugh, or to roll over and kiss him awake and see if he gives her that same, amazed look, like she's just handed him a gift he never expected.

She doesn't know how to be bold the way Azelma is, giving of herself freely and without fear. But she runs her fingers across Combeferre's skin in the dark, close stillness of the night and wishes she did.

During the day, it's easier to lose herself in the work and let it sweep away all other preoccupations. Combeferre teaches her about science because he must, because she can't understand what he needs her charms to do without at least a rudimentary understanding of the theory behind his work. But she thinks, more than that, that he teaches her because he wants to, because he loves what he does so fiercely that it bubbles out of him like an overfilled stockpot, too full to contain everything within him. She thinks he might have taught her earlier, if she'd ever lingered long enough in the workshop to give him a chance, simply because she was there and she listened.

She teaches him about magic in turn, as much as she can. He has a better grasp of the work he does and how to explain the way each piece fits into the next than she has of hers, but they stumble forward together.

It's slow work, with more setbacks than she's accustomed to with her charms. Combeferre's work needs more precision than she's ever demanded of her spells, and the work leaves her frustrated more often than not. Once, they spend a week working on refining a charm meant to gather a fluid to it and keep it confined, rather than mixing with the rest of the solution around it. They're using water and oil from the kitchen rather than Combeferre's chemicals, while she works to get it right, and at the end of the week she thinks she's close.

Combeferre fills a beaker halfway with the oil and water and she drops the charm in with it while he hovers at her side, practically vibrating with excitement. They crouch in front of the workbench together, and Éponine scarcely breathes as they watch the oil drip down through the water it's floating on, to gather into a mass around her charm, amorphous and writhing at first, but slowly the magic works, and compresses all of the oil in until it's formed a perfect sphere with the charm floating at its center.

Éponine sucks in a sharp breath, elated, and looks over to Combeferre to find him frowning, instead. "Are you able to turn the effect off?" he asks her, sitting back on his heels.

She reaches forward to take the charm from the beaker, just as Combeferre says, "No—" and the ceramic charm fractures as though it's been stepped on.

The spell breaks with the charm, and the perfect bubble within the beaker bursts, and sends water and oil spraying up through the beaker's mouth like a geyser.

Éponine jerks back from the eruption, sputtering, and looks to Combeferre, who's as soaked with water and oil as she is and blinking at her, just as startled.

He recovers faster than she does, and throws his head back and laughs. "At least there wasn't fire, this time," he says, and reaches out to wipe her face clean with his sleeve.

She pulls back, trying to protest, but there's not much for it. The shirt's already spattered with the mess anyway. She waits until he's done and pushes her damp hair back out of her face.

"Are you all right?" he asks her, wiping his own face off now that he's finished with hers. "That wasn't hot, was it?"

She shakes her head. "I smell like cooking oil," she says plaintively, and it makes him grin.

"If that's the worst we've suffered, we're in good shape."

She blows out a sharp breath and frowns at the beaker, and the shattered remnants of her charm at its bottom. "Why did it do that? It didn't do that last time, and I didn't change much. I just wanted the magic to keep it in a more contained ball, because you were saying the way it was it could still cause interference--"

"Ah," he says, and smiles at her. "Let's go get cleaned up, shall we? And then I think we'll spend some time talking about fluid mechanics and Pascal's law."

*

They change, and wash the oil from themselves, and then they sit together on the settee and Combeferre starts talking about hydrostatics and incompressible fluids and other things that make Éponine's head spin. Eventually, she sighs and leans her face in against his shoulder and mutters into his shirtsleeve, "Maybe you'd be better off trying to isolate your variables without me, after all."

He goes very still for a moment, and then glances down at her and wraps an arm around her back. "I hope you don't feel obligated to do this. I appreciate your help immensely, but please don't think that I expect it of you. If you'd prefer not to be involved--"

She sighs and sits up so she can scrub her hands over her face, though not so far that she dislodges his arm around her. "It's not _that_. But I don't think I'm helping. You could be working, instead of having beakers explode in your face and trying to explain things to me that I'm never going to understand."

He seems about to say something, but then stops and looks at her very seriously. "I'll have to beg your forgiveness if my explanations are lacking. There are books we can buy on the subject, if you think those would be clearer--"

"Combeferre," she groans, pressing the heels of her hands to her eyes. "The problem isn't _you_."

He's quiet for a long moment, long enough that she starts to think maybe he's just not going to say anything at all, so she drops her hands and looks at him. He's watching her with such a solemn expression, like she's said something heartbreaking instead of just pointing out the obvious. "I'm not educated," she says, a little desperately, willing him to understand. "I'm not like you. You're so smart, and I'm just holding you back."

"Éponine," he says, and there's a carefulness to his tone that makes her wary. She's used to that tone from people who are angry and trying to hide it, but when she glances up at him, there's no violence in his gaze. "You can't think that education and intelligence are anything like the same thing."

She's smart enough to know the point he's trying to get at, and she answers that, rather than what he said, her voice flat and direct. "I'm not."

Combeferre brings a hand up to rub against the middle of his brow. She lets him, and when he drops his hand, he looks bewildered and confused, and hurt, which she doesn't understand at all. "Éponine, you're so clever. I've seen it for myself, you can't tell me you're not."

She gives a sharp, barking laugh and shakes her head. "Were you not there in the workshop with me just now? I ruined it."

"You miscalculated. Shall I tell you the number of times I've done so in the course of my career?"

"I've forgotten half the things you taught me," she says, growing more desperate with every word, because she has to make him understand. He thinks she's something she's not, and she can't bear the thought of the disappointment in his eyes when he realizes the truth, if she lets this charade continue on any longer than it already has. "And the other half hardly makes any sense at all. I don't know how to do this. You'd be better off with anyone but me."

He's still looking at her like she's breaking his heart, even more so with every moment that passes, with every word across her lips. He looks like he wants to reach out to her and pull her into an embrace, and she wishes he would at the same time that she hopes he won't. "The thing about science," he says finally, "is that no one who's doing it really feels like they know what they're up to. They might know the formulas and the equations and have an idea of what should happen, but science isn't the same as schooling. It's not about having the right answers, it's about learning the answers nobody knows yet. It's hard, and it's fraught with setbacks and frustrations. You've seen it in me often enough, haven't you? But just because you're struggling, just because you've made a mistake and you're frustrated by it, doesn't mean that you're not also very, very clever."

She draws a careful breath, fighting to loosen the knot constricted around her chest. "I can't imagine what I've done to make you think that."

He smiles, slow and warm and brilliant. "It's _everything_ you've done, Éponine."

She has to bite back what she meant to say, and swallow down the sudden thickness in her throat.

"When I was a student," he continues, "it took me years and years to learn the things I've been teaching you. The things you've grasped in a matter of weeks. Even if you've forgotten half of it — even if you'd forgotten nine-tenths of it — you are still doing brilliantly, and having you working at my side has been nothing but a joy and an asset." He reaches out to her, takes her hand in his and clasps it. "If you don't want to continue, if you dislike the sense of frustration too much to finish the work, I understand, and you'll get no protest from me. I welcome your help, but I'd never demand it. You're free to do as you like, always. But don't do it because you think you're _stupid_ , or you think I'd somehow prefer it that way. Whatever you do, Éponine, do it because it's what you want, that's all I'd ever ask of you."

She fights down the rising instinct to protest. It's so hard to sort through everything else boiling up within her and pluck out only thoughts of _what she wants_. What she wants has never been able to be a priority, before. But she gives it the effort it deserves, because Combeferre asked it of her and after everything he's done for her, for all of them, she can't deny him this. "I want to understand what happened," she says at last, squaring her shoulders and lifting her chin to meet his gaze. "I want to know why."

An incredible smile breaks across his face, transforming it, like sunlight spilling across a horizon. "There. You see? You've the heart of a scientist already."

She still isn't quite sure she believes him, but it's easier to have faith with his hand in hers, and his smile buoying her up, like he can make anything true simply by virtue of believing it wholeheartedly.

*

It takes several more weeks to refine all the charms they'll need, and get them working to Combeferre's satisfaction. They don't have anything else blow up in their faces, though Éponine takes to wearing her older, more patched and threadbare dresses when they're going to be in the workshop, just to be safe.

Finally, one day, Combeferre sits back from the workbench and scrubs his hands through his hair and says, "I think-- I think we've got everything we need to run the experiment."

It takes Éponine by surprise. She turns to look at him, too exhausted to realize the import of his words for a moment, and then-- "Really? Do you think so?" She looks back at the beaker on his workbench, flakes of chalky precipitate clustered about the charm they placed inside it, and frowns a little. "I could do better, I think. If I just changed it so that it--"

He clasps her shoulder, and the warmth of his hand through her thin shift makes her stop all at once. When she turns back to him, he's smiling, weary but warm. "It's doing its job perfectly."

She lets out all the air in her lungs at once. It hardly seems real, that the moment they've been working towards so hard might actually be upon them. "Okay. Okay, we should-- Okay."

He laughs quietly, and pulls her in against him and kisses the crown of her head. "It's gone past midnight," he says. "We should sleep. We can set the experiment up tomorrow, when we're fresh. We've worked too hard to ruin it now by making a silly mistake because we couldn't wait until morning."

There's excitement and anticipation bubbling up through her, but she concedes the point and nods, and lets him pull her up to her feet and guide her to bed. And in the morning, they scarcely wait for their tea to finish brewing, gulp it down while it's still almost scalding and then hurry back to the workshop to set up the experiment.

Éponine still only feels like she has a tenuous grasp on what the experiment is meant to discover, and how the process behind it works. But it looks satisfying, having the row of beakers and solutions set up in a corner of the workshop where it won't be disturbed, and Combeferre seems quietly pleased by their work. And her charms sit there, dropped inside some beakers and woven into ceramic plates set beneath others, her magic there quietly helping the process along. She slips her hand into his, and smiles when he pulls her in and presses an enthusiastic kiss to her cheek.

And then, there's little to do but wait. The process will take days before they see any results, Combeferre says, and while she's glad for an excuse to have his company outside of the workshop, it still eats quietly at her thoughts, pulling her attention away in unguarded moments.

The children enjoy their presence outside of the workroom as well, that much is obvious, though she's sure Gavroche would never say as much. But Azelma clambers into Combeferre's lap on the settee when she's given the chance, and asks him to tell her about all sorts of things, and continues to gift him with charms until the bedside table can scarcely hold any more, and Éponine marvels at how one heart can hold so much happiness inside it.

When the days have passed and the experiment is ready, she's there at his side, trying to keep from vibrating out of her skin while Combeferre takes measurements and readings and scribbles calculations across a piece of parchment. When he looks up at her, his eyes are shining bright and she knows, but she still makes herself ask, "Well?"

He smiles brilliantly, then clears his throat and visibly restrains himself. "It looks good," he says, careful and measured. "It looks promising."

She must make a face, some dubious lift of her brows, because he almost immediately starts laughing. "Don't look at me like that," he says, and pulls her in to wrap an arm around her waist. "It's too soon to say anything definitive yet."

"It's been _days._ "

"I know." He rubs his thumb across her knuckles, like he's trying to soothe her. "But a result you get once doesn't mean very much. And the trouble I've been having is with the variables getting in the way and causing unpredictable results. This looks good, it really does, but the real test is going to be seeing if we get the same outcome twice, or even three times, or more."

She lets out all the air in her lungs at once. "We have to do this again," she says flatly.

The smile he gives her is sympathetic, apologetic. "It's the nature of the work. Our answers don't mean anything if they're not consistent. We may as well be rolling dice and trying to divine meaning from the random, otherwise."

It's a disappointment, but she hasn't forgotten what he told her, all those weeks ago. That sometimes waiting is the most important part of an experiment, that patience is key. It's never been something she's terribly good at, but neither has science been, and now she's catching herself using words like _catalyst_ unthinking, and quietly wondering who she is and what's happened to that frightened, desperate woman who sat in the back of the Musain all those months ago, just hoping for an evening's refuge.

"Okay," she says, and allows herself just a moment to clench her hands in her hair before she drops them and straightens her spine. "Let's set it up again, then."

*

They wait days more, for the second experiment to finish, and then again for a third, just to be sure. And when Combeferre has finished his calculations for the last experiment, while Éponine stands with her hands pressed over her mouth, scarcely able to breathe for the excitement and fear and anticipation, he tips back in his chair and scrubs his hands over his face and starts laughing giddily.

"It worked," she breathes through her fingers, staring at him over them. " _Combeferre_. It worked?"

He turns to her, lowering his hands from his face, and he's beaming as bright as she's ever seen. "It's working. The numbers all match up. We did it." He starts laughing again, like he's delighted with the world, though this time he doesn't look away from her. "Yes, it worked."

She gives a soft, strangled cry and throws herself at him. He catches her as her arms go around his neck and then he's on his feet, turning in circles with her and laughing still, with relief, with delight, with joy.

She clings to him as they spin, holding on tight and breathing against his neck as her head whirls at the sudden lifting of the weight that they've carried with them all this time, of so many weeks of labor, of so much effort and concentration and hope.

He sets her down eventually, but she keeps her arms locked around his neck so he has to stoop a little, to get her feet to the floor. They're still now but she still feels lightheaded with it, and when she opens her eyes and looks up at Combeferre he's like the sun above her, shining bright and warm and happy, and she makes another, softer sound and lifts up onto her toes to press her mouth to his.

"Éponine," he breathes into her kiss, soft and wondering. He cups her face in his hands and she thinks he means to stop her, but his fingers are almost reverent against her cheeks, and he stoops more, leaning in to kiss her back.

There's a fierce, giddy joy bubbling up in her. She opens her mouth to his and loosens her arms, just enough to get her hands on the back of his neck and curl her fingers through the hair at his nape. He makes a sound into the kiss, presses in harder and kisses her back until she's breathless with it.

She has to break away eventually, gasping for air and reeling, feeling like the room is spinning around them and he's the one steady, constant thing at its center. She grabs onto the shoulders of his shirt for purchase, bracing her unsteadiness against his strength, and tips her face up to him to find him watching her like she's a miracle made manifest.

"Éponine," he says again, and this time, without her mouth on his muffling the sound, there's less awe there, and more determination.

She drops her head forward, brow pressing against his collarbone, waiting for him to do what he's always done. To set her back, to smile like he's content with this, to entirely overlook the fact that while he may not want more, she _does_.

He says her name a third time, a little more strangled now, and one of the hands on her cheek slides back into her hair. He bends over her, doesn't kiss her hair like she's expecting but just holds onto her, bent over her like he means to protect her -- or like he wants to keep her entirely for himself. "I think--" His voice is rough, and it catches and breaks with every other word. "I think this is perhaps not the best place for us to be, right now."

They're in the workshop still, surrounded by chemicals and glass beakers and the charms that they've spent weeks perfecting. He's not wrong. She nods against his chest, then rises up onto her toes and kisses him again, instead of moving.

He laughs quietly, his lips curved against hers and his chest shaking a little beneath the hand she has pressed to it. He lifts one hand to cover hers where it's pressed above his racing heart, tucks the other along her jaw and grazes his thumb there so it hardly even feels like a loss when he draws away. "Come on," he says, warm and encouraging. "It's not far."

She lets him guide her out of the workshop, then tucks her hand into his and walks with him the half-dozen steps that carry them into the bedroom. She shuts the door while he continues to the bed and sits on its edge, and when she comes to join him, she'd climb up onto the mattress with him and into his lap, but he takes her hand in his and guides her around instead, to sit at his side, a mirror to his own position.

She looks down at her hands in his, the only place where they're touching, and it's all she can do not to scream with frustration. "You didn't ask me to come in here so we could _talk_ ," she says, flat and disbelieving.

His thumb rubs a circle around the knuckle just behind her wedding ring. "I would very much like to, yes."

She shuts her eyes and lets out all her breath on a long, slow exhale. "Combeferre--"

"Éponine," he says. "Humor me. Please."

She flops onto her back with a groan, though she stays close enough that it doesn't pull her hand from his. He turns toward her, and she can feel the weight of him looking down at her. She doesn't know what he wants of her, though, so she just waits.

"I think I frightened you, last time," he says at length, quiet, and it makes something cold and unhappy slide through her. She opens her eyes, but he's looking down at their joined hands, not at her directly. "I would like to not do that again."

She tightens her hand around his. "I'm not afraid, if that's what's worrying you."

It makes him smile a little, a twitch of his lips directed down to where they're holding onto each other. "I'm glad to hear it. And it is one thing, but not all of it."

She groans again, and would speak, but he keeps talking and doesn't give her the chance to.

"I made you a promise, when we wed," he says, his voice suddenly low and urgent. "Do you remember?"

She pushes herself upright, sitting up again and facing him, cross-legged on the bed but with their hands still clasped between them. She can't bring herself to let go. "I remember. You made a number of promises. We both did."

The smile that crosses his face this time is warmer, and lasts longer. It brings his gaze up to meet hers at last. "Yes. I don't mean the vows, though. I made you a promise, afterwards."

It takes her a moment to sort through her memories of that day. Mostly what she recalls is a haze of desperation and determination, and the quiet, screaming fear that what he was offering couldn't really be as good as it seemed on the surface.

She wishes she knew how to go back and tell herself not to worry, that it was all going to be so much better.

"Do you mean, about the bed?" She remembers that conversation, too, remembers standing here in this very room, half sick with fear and dread that he would expect to take what was his right, as her husband. "You are _not_ moving back into the workshop."

He laughs quietly, lifts her hand in his and kisses her knuckles. "No," he says softly. "Not unless you ask me. But that's not what I mean." He glances up at her, through his lashes, still holding her hand close enough that his lips skim across her skin. "I promised you that anything this marriage was, or would become, would be because you wished it that way."

"That's a _lie_ , you know very well what I want and you're still sitting there insisting we talk."

His fingers tighten, just a little, on hers, demanding her attention. "I promised you the option of an annulment, if you ever decided this wasn't what you wanted."

The impact of his words land like a blow, making her shudder hard, just the once. Her breath comes quicker. "And I told _you_ ," she snaps, "that if you were going to keep threatening me with that, then I'd rather we just--" She breaks off abruptly, sucks in air through her teeth. "I remember what else you said that night. I asked if you wanted me and you said you didn't. If that's still true, if you don't-- We don't have to talk about it like this, you could've just said." She starts to try to disentangle her fingers from his. "I'd have let you be."

"Éponine," he says, and all at once he's soft and warm again, and smiling at her with little creases in the corners of his eyes. "That's not what I said."

"It _is_ , you--"

"I told you that I took no pleasure in a woman's fear."

All at once her mouth is parched, her breath coming thick and heavy through her lungs. "You want me." It's not a question, and he doesn't deny it. She hisses out a sharp breath and rolls up onto her knees, moving toward him across the space that he's placed between them. She slides the hand he's not still holding into his hair and leans her brow against his. "Then _why are we still talking?_ "

He tips his head up enough to kiss her, lightly, briefly, and says into the close, warm space between them, "Because this is important."

"I don't know what you want me to say," she admits. But the restlessness crawling beneath her skin has died down somewhat now that they're touching again, and she can gather her thoughts enough to try to focus on what it is he needs from her.

"Just the truth." He smiles at her and skims a hand across her hair and down the side of her face. "I just want honesty from you, that's all."

"About _what?_ "

The hand slips around to the back of her neck and rests there, warm and gentle. "I don't want you to regret this," he whispers, and all at once there's a frightful sort of vulnerability written across his face, a depth of concern she hadn't realized he'd been carrying with him until now. His hand curls against her neck and he strokes the backs of his fingers along the side of her throat. "Last time, you thought you wanted this and then you changed your mind. I just want-- I want you to be sure." His touch is so tender, his gaze so sincere where it rests upon her. "I want you to be happy, Éponine," he says on a hoarse whisper, like that's somehow too honest for him to speak aloud. "I couldn't bear it if this was something you came to wish you hadn't done."

He's the one who asked her to remember, who'd opened the door to memories when she'd been perfectly content not to think at all. And now she does remember, more than he asked her to. She remembers a cool, early morning with him at her side and the children running up ahead of them, remembers picking over produce at the market and him quietly saying of the children, _They love you. All they want is for you to be happy_.

_I want you to be happy_ , he tells her now and her breath goes ragged and thin all at once. She drops her hand to his shoulder and grips him tight, tells him in a voice that shakes all of the sudden, "For the love of God, Combeferre, all you want to do is talk and _now_ you're mincing words? Just-- Tell me." She doesn't have any air left in her lungs. Her voice is thin and fragile and trembling like a flag in a storm. "You wanted honesty from me and I want the same. Just _tell me_ , if it's true."

He doesn't have to ask her what she means, and that in itself is almost enough for her to be sure. But she waits, scarcely daring to breathe.

"Éponine," he says, and his voice is so soft, his gaze is so tender. "We've been talking about promises, but I meant all the vows I made to you, too. To be a friend and companion," he says, and her throat goes tight, because he has been that to her, more than she ever could have expected or hoped for. "To honor. To cherish," he says, his voice going rough and his eyes glinting bright despite the dim light of the room. "To support you in all things." His voice breaks there, and she knows why, because there's only one vow left that they made to each other. It was the least important then, but it's not now, and she holds her breath and holds onto him and keeps her gaze locked on his as he whispers, hoarse, "To love." His throat jumps like he's swallowing back tears and he cups her face in his hand like she's as precious as gold. "It wasn't true when we said it, we both knew that. But I've kept that vow all the same, because it's become true." He leans in and kisses her, gently, but this time he lingers. "I do love you, Éponine. You asked me for honesty, and those are the truest words I've ever spoken."

She was so happy moments ago, and she's happier now, but even so there are tears welling up in her eyes and spilling over, streaming down her cheeks. He kisses them away as they fall, murmuring soothing sounds and holding onto her with careful hands until she's able to stem the flow, at least down to a trickle.

She should say it back to him. It should be easy now that he's said it first, bared his heart to her with open generosity and no guarantee of reciprocation. But the weight of everything she feels is like a flood bearing down on her, suffocating her with its weight. She chokes out, past the tears, "I don't want an annulment. I don't want it to be something we keep tucked away in a back drawer like a dowry, should the day come we decide we need it." She seeks his hands out, groping, until he slips them into hers and she can clutch at him. "Our marriage is real. It's valid, and it matters, and I won't have any church saying otherwise. I want to be your wife. I want the vows I said to mean something." She leans into him, brow pressed to his again, and fights to pull air into her shuddering lungs. "I don't want the option of an annulment. You meant it to make me feel safe, I know you did. You're a better man than I deserve. But it's stopped feeling like safety, and all it feels like now is a threat."

"Éponine," he says, breathed into the space between them, and his voice is shaking as badly as she is.

She's not done yet, though, so she squeezes his hands and kisses him, then draws back enough to say, "We're a family, Combeferre. And I'm not leaving."

She means to kiss him again, but his hands go tight on hers and his breath saws through his throat. He looks at her like she's unmanned him, almost like he's in pain, and for a moment she starts to worry. But before she can do more than shift her weight back and start to frown, he shakes his hands from hers and catches her face between his hands.

His gaze blazes into hers for a single instant, and then he pulls her into a kiss that's as fiercely desperate as his others have been tender and restrained.

Éponine throws her arms around his neck and kisses him back with abandon. She nearly overbalances him, but he wraps an arm tight around her waist and manages to stay upright, and he never once stops kissing her.

She tears herself away eventually, just long enough to gasp out, "Does this mean we're done talking now?"

The smile that answers her blooms across his face. He skims a thumb across her lip, then leans in and kisses her there, like all at once he can't bear to be separated. "I'm going to have so many things I want to say to you," he says, his voice a low, warm rumble that makes her shiver and press in closer to him. "But yes. I think we can be done, for now."

"Good," she says, and bears him back intentionally this time, one hand braced on his chest and her weight leaning in against him until he topples backwards, and pulls her down with him.

She holds herself up over him on outstretched arms, her hair a curtain falling around them both. His hands hover just over her shoulders, barely grazing against her shift, and his gaze is steady on hers and so, so happy. She has to lean down and kiss him again, long and slow and sweet, because she can't fit her mind around the thought that she's the reason for it.

He grazes his hands across her shoulders, down her arms and back up again. One slips into her hair and rests lightly on the back of her neck, urging her into the kiss when she's already losing her breath from it. The other continues to stroke her arm, an easy sweep up and down.

_Like I need gentling_ , she thinks, and nearly laughs at the idea of it. She feels electric beneath his hands, but she feels strong with it, focused like the way his little lenses can focus a candle's flame to a single, brilliant pinpoint of light, as blinding as the sun. She hums against his lips and opens her mouth to him, lets the kiss go deep and electrifying.

It's easy to lose herself in the heat of his mouth, in the solid strength of him beneath her and the soft, bitten-off noises he makes in the kiss. Eventually, she comes aware that the hand on her arm has slipped to her waist instead, that he's stroking her side and sliding his hand up to pluck at the buttons down the front of her dress, before she sighs into the kiss and distracts him from the task at hand.

She draws back, rising up above him. He chases after her mouth for a moment, before settling back. His gaze goes to her straightaway, warm and wanting but also just a little worried. His throat works for a moment, his fingers brushing against the thin fabric of her shift.

"Are you all right?"

She smiles, brilliantly, catches his hand in hers and bends down to press a kiss against his fingers. And then she sits upright instead of leaning forward over him. It puts more distance between them, but it also makes it easy for her to guide his hands to her buttons, makes it the matter of a moment before his breath hitches, and his fingers start to move beneath hers, taking over the task.

Her dress gapes open little by little, a slow reveal of only her shift beneath. When Combeferre has unbuttoned down to her waist and there are more still to go, he hesitates, and his gaze lifts back to hers, suddenly far more solemn than she thinks is warranted.

"You can say no," he says, soft and more than a little hoarse. "You can say yes, and then change your mind. Please, you have to know--"

She leans over him again, pressing a quick kiss to his mouth to quiet him. "I know," she tells him, her lips brushing against his as she speaks. "You're a good man, Combeferre." And when that seems to satisfy him, she sits up once more, and takes his hands in hers and presses them to her stomach, where there's only her thin shift between his skin and hers.

He lets out an unsteady breath. The touch of his hands through her shift is light and careful, and she shivers as he slides them past the gaping edges of her dress. He fits his hands to her waist and holds onto her, his thumbs sweeping caresses back and forth across her stomach. His gaze is on her, mostly, on what she's bared to him, but every few seconds he glances up at her to meet her eyes, and he looks so awed and so humbled.

The weight of his regard feels like sunlight pouring over her, warm and enveloping. He sits up, his back curving so he can do so without dislodging her, and leaves a line of kisses along her shoulder. She laughs and tilts her head to give him better access, and reaches down to finish unbuttoning her dress, since he's been distracted from his task.

When the last button comes free, she shrugs her dress off and lets it drop off the side of the bed onto the floor. Combeferre makes a noise and wraps his arms around her back for a moment, holding her tightly as he presses his face to the slope of her shoulder. And then he sets her back and his gaze roams over her, and she has to fight back a blush because she knows her shift does little to conceal the shape of her beneath it.

It's ridiculous to feel shy when they're wed, when they've shared a bed for weeks and he's seen her in her nightshift every night. But she does feel unbalanced, with only her shift to clothe her and that bunched up to her thighs from the way she's kneeling astride his lap, and Combeferre still fully dressed beneath her.

She reaches out to put her hands on his shoulders and he stills beneath her like he knows what she intends. His gaze is rapt even as he makes no demands of her, just lies back with his eyes on her and lets her pluck at the knot of his neckerchief, his expression eloquent even though he doesn't say a word.

It's not elaborately tied, and it comes loose easily enough. She casts that away too, then lingers with her fingers on the first button of his shirt, right there at the hollow of his throat. She feels an abrupt sort of sympathy for his troubles with her own buttons, because now that their roles are reversed, it feels strangely momentous to be undressing him like this, to strip aside the layers that have always separated them and bare him to her sight.

How silly it seems, to have been married for months but to find themselves as anxious as newlyweds _now_. She works three buttons open, careful and methodical with each, and then bends over him and presses a kiss to the triangle of his skin that they reveal. He's warm beneath her lips, his skin soft but the hair on his chest a coarse contrast. He smells like their bath soap, and when she draws back and licks her lips, he tastes like salt.

She undoes the rest of his shirt, and each button that slides free is a revelation. There's an old scar on his breastbone, faded nearly to invisibility but her fingertips still find it. She'll ask him about it later, she thinks, and continues on, across muscles that have been hidden to her by layers of clothing.

His stomach twitches beneath her touch when she runs her hand down it, and that's a source of fascination, too. She strokes trails through the hair on his stomach, finds a place on the side of his ribs that makes him suck in air and flinch away like he's ticklish, and she moves on without him having to say.

When she's undone the last button and his shirt gapes open down to his waist, she sits up and takes him in for a moment. He lets her, remaining still beneath her regard and only tensing a little when she spreads both hands wide across his waist, bracing herself.

She leans down and presses a kiss to his breastbone, and feels the rapid beat of his pulse beneath his skin.

She feels steadier now, with him at least as disrobed as she is, with both of them bared to each other and appreciating each other. He strokes a hand through her hair and breathes unevenly as she leaves a trail of exploratory kisses down his chest and across his stomach.

When her lips are low on his stomach, her hands fit around his hips to hold them both steady, the cadence of his breathing shifts and he slides the hand in her hair around to cup her cheek. "Come here?" he asks, his voice rough and his gaze direct on her.

She lets him guide her up, until she's over him again and he leans up and catches her mouth. His kiss is harder now, hungrier. She brushes the backs of her fingers against his jaw and kisses him back.

It's glorious to lie there with him like this, with half the layers and all the distance between them stripped away. He rubs a hand over her back as they kiss, grips her waist when she catches the edge of her teeth against his lip, breathes a shuddering sigh into her mouth when she grasps handfuls of his hair in her fists.

His arms go tight around her a moment before he rolls her beneath him. She loses her breath a little at the weight of him atop her, at the way he's suddenly all she can see and he's looking down at her like he never wants to move from where they are. It's nice like this, too, she thinks, without her arms having to work to keep her held up, without the occasional strand of her hair caught up in their kiss as it falls across her face. Everything's gone warm and hazy and slippery as she tries to grasp onto her thoughts. She tips her head back and gasps as he kisses her neck, his lips warm and curious and setting every nerve afire.

He strokes her ribs and her belly through her shift, draws back and watches her as his hand trails over her hip, like he's gauging her responses and like every one of them delights him. When she shifts beneath him, pressing up into his palm, he gets a look in his eye that she's all too familiar with. It's the look he gets when he's been seized by an idea in the workshop, the one that means he's about to go scrabbling for clean flasks and chemicals and something to scribble notations on. It's dizzying to find herself the subject of that look, of that intensity and focus.

"What do you like?" he asks, skimming his hand along the hem of her shift, gathered up around her thigh from their maneuvering. His fingers stroke her through the shift's thin fabric, and his palm presses warm against her skin, and the contrast between the two leaves her breathless. "I want to make you feel good, Éponine. What do you want?"

"I don't— I mean." She's no maiden. She's fucked before, but those were mostly brief and urgent encounters, a skirt tucked up about her waist and trousers half-unbuttoned in whatever shadowed space they could find. They'd been a means to release and little more. They'd been nothing at all like this, these slow, drugging kisses and the heat building up within her until she feels incandescent before he's done anything more than kiss her. She chokes her answer off half-formed, because what she wants here with Combeferre is nothing at all like what she wanted from those trysts. "I'm not sure."

He doesn't try to coddle or patronize her, like some might at the implication she doesn't know her own mind. Instead he just smiles so broadly that it reaches all the way up to his eyes, like she's just laid the most delightful array of choices out before him. "We'll just have to experiment," he says, and she bites back a thin laugh. She's seen the single-minded determination he brings to bear on his experiments, and she's not sure how she'll survive being at its focus. She already feels halfway out of herself, and he's scarcely touched her.

He slips the hand on her thigh beneath the hem of her shift, stroking lightly over the back of her knee, where the nerves are so sensitive that even that makes her catch her breath and curl her hands into the bedding. "You'll tell me, if you don't like anything," he says and it's half a question, half insistence. She nods acknowledgement, even though she can't imagine how that would be possible.

He leans over her and kisses her, like maybe he wants to start with something he knows she likes. She considers telling him he needn't worry, that she's glad just to be here with him like this, that all he has to do is look at her and every nerve lights up. But she'd have to break away from the kiss to do that, so she just slides her hands around the back of his neck instead, and tries to put it all into her kiss.

They kiss until her breath starts to hitch and she starts to wonder if maybe she doesn't need to take hold of his hands and place them upon her, like she did before. But just as she's about to, like he can read the hunger building in her, he sides away and kisses her jaw instead, his lips warm and searching as he leaves a trail of kisses up to where her pulse beats in her throat.

He kisses her throat, behind her ear, her neck down to where it joins to her shoulder, follows the line of it until the gathered neck of her shift gets in his way and she thinks maybe he'll stop teasing her with suggested promises and take it off of her, but it scarcely puts him off his stride.

He kisses her shoulder through her shift, and his hand skims down her arm. His lips follow it, down her arm to kiss the inside of her wrist, the center of her palm. When he kisses at the base of each of her fingers, his lips part and his tongue grazes across her skin like a lick of fire, and she gasps.

He glances up at her, a bright sort of satisfaction in his gaze as his lips curve against her skin. He makes his way back up along her arm with the same patience and care, but this time his kisses are wet and open-mouthed, and her skin tingles in their wake.

He follows the drape of her neckline, when he reaches it, kissing across her shoulder and curving across her chest. He fits his hand to her ribs, fingertips stroking there, and kisses the curve of her breast through the shift. She sucks in a gulp of air and then holds it, quivering beneath his hand, beneath his lips, while he kisses an aimless, exploratory path around her breast.

Eventually — _finally_ — his lips find her nipple, and all the breath she's been holding explodes out of her. He hums a soft sound and lingers instead of moving on. His tongue laps across her nipple, his lips pluck at it, his thumb grazes across it when he has to draw back and catch his breath, and the fabric of her shift that had always seemed insubstantial before now is infuriating for the way it keeps her from feeling it all the way that way that she wants.

She pushes one hand through his hair, holding onto him as his lips work magic across her skin. He shifts his weight to free his other hand, brings it up to cup and knead her other breast. His fingers stroke and catch and tug at her nipple, sharp where his mouth is gentle, and she twitches her hips against the weight of him and moans, unable to help herself.

Combeferre exhales sharply, a burst of air across her damp shift and a quiet, answering moan muffled against her breast. He doesn't draw back for that, just kisses her through it, but he does pull away enough to breathe up at her, "You are so gorgeous," his face awash with rapturous amazement.

She can't manage a response, and doesn't know what she'd say if she could. Her breath is gathered thick in her chest and her throat is tight from the things his mouth has done to her, the wicked, clever things his fingers are still doing. But Combeferre doesn't seem to be waiting for a response, he just breathes his praise up at her and then bends again, mouths carefully at her nipple again and wrings another, strangled sound out of her before he smiles and moves on.

He kisses across her ribs and she feels like a drowning woman whose head has finally broken the surface. She sucks in deep, greedy breaths and pets her fingers through his hair, silently encouraging him.

He turns his head just enough to brush a kiss over her wrist, and she uses the opportunity to cup his cheek and just hold onto him for a moment. He smiles against her skin and lifts one of his own hands to cover hers, a moment of connection that feels like a lifeline thrown into the maelstrom of sensation she's caught up in, and her heart aches with how much she loves him.

She must look wild, because he keeps hold of her hand, but draws it away so he can ask her, "Are you all right?"

She'd laugh, if she had the breath for it. Instead she just smiles, broad and bright, and slips her hand into his hair again so she can tug at it gently. "I'm great," she tells him.

He nods, and shifts down the bed before he bends over her again, his lips on her stomach now and his hands pushing up the hem of her shift. She's nearly bared to him now, only her drawers left between them, and her head spins with how much she wants this, wants him.

He makes a quiet sound as he kisses her belly again, nothing between them now, just his lips soft and a little damp on her skin, and he pulls carefully at the ties of her drawers.

The knot comes loose easy enough, and when she lifts her hips from the bed, he takes her meaning and skims a hand down her side, sliding them down and off.

He has to move back farther, in order for her to kick them off completely, and she takes the opportunity to sit up and wrest her shift off over her head. She's bared to him entirely now, and trembling a little, but he kneels there at her feet with one hand cupped around her ankle like he knows she needs that connection, or like he does, and the expression on his face is just the same as it had been moments ago when she moaned for him, and he called her gorgeous. He looks at her like she's the most amazing thing he's ever seen, and it makes heat burn across her cheeks.

He shifts off of his knees, lowering himself to an elbow between her feet and pressing a kiss to the bone of her ankle, and then her calf, and the back of her knee. She drops down onto her back once more as he leaves a trail of kisses up her thigh, and she shifts her knees apart to make room for him between them.

His kisses are careful and delicate as he nears the apex of her thighs, his breath hot against her skin, his hair a tickling caress. She slides her fingers through it, brushing it back out of his face so she can see him better.

He's less composed now than he had been, and she's glad for it. He looks almost as wild as she feels, leaving kisses across the tender insides of her thighs but not where she most wants him. He looks like he's aching just as much as she is, and she can't understand why he'd come so close and then hold back from them both. She protests, " _Combeferre,"_ tightening her fingers in his hair, and that must be what he needed because he slides his thumb through the folds between her legs and then bends and kisses her there, and she has to stuff a hand against her mouth to muffle the noise she makes at the first touch of his lips against her.

His hand runs up and down the outside of her thigh, soothing her, and his mouth is gentle, exploratory. He kisses her, sucks carefully, licks into her, and his hand tightens on her leg every time her breath catches or her hips twitch up against his mouth or she breathes an oath against her palm.

He's meticulous and dedicated, and has her trembling on the edge of something momentous in a matter of minutes. When he draws back to catch his breath, he replaces his mouth with his finger, his thumb stroking over her, returning to all the places that make her thigh shudder beneath his palm and make her chest heave. He slides a finger inside of her and she clenches tight around him, she's so close, she's _so close_. She shakes beneath him, against him, around him, and he turns his face in against her thigh and breathes, " _God_ ," there against her skin and his voice is as unsteady as she is, he sounds as wrecked as she feels.

"Please," she babbles, her hands casting out for something to grab onto, and finding the back of his head again, where his hair is soft and a little damp beneath her fingers. "Please, please, Combeferre, _please_."

He understands her even though she can't remember how to string a sentence together, slides his finger out and puts his mouth on her again, and this time he's devastating with it, focusing in on all the places that lit her up the first time around. She moves against him, unable to keep still for him, pushing up against his mouth and arching off the bed. She holds onto him and gasps around the noises that try to claw their way from her throat, until the heat and pressure of it building up inside her is too much and she falls apart, crying out as she shakes violently beneath him and everything is lost in a wash of white, radiant heat.

It's long moments before she can do more than drift, listless, senseless, feeling too expansive for her skin. When she begins to come back to herself, Combeferre has moved up to lie beside her, wrapped around her with his head leaned close to hers, one hand stroking her hair and her cheek as he breathes soft, fervent praise.

She realizes slowly that she's still holding onto him, still has her fingers clenched tight on the back of his head, and she releases them with a grimace, rubs her fingers across his scalp in apology and murmurs, "Sorry."

He lifts his head and looks down at her, and he's wide-eyed and flushed still. " _Éponine_ ," he breathes, like she's somehow hurt him by saying so. "No. Don't apologize for any of that."

She gives him a lopsided smile. "I was pulling your hair."

"You were _incredible_."

She laughs quietly and rolls in towards him, to give him a soft, lingering kiss. "I think I'm the one who's supposed to be saying that, aren't I?"

He doesn't answer except to kiss her, and that's really the only answer she wants, anyway. They stay like that for a time, warm and close and trading soft kisses, until Éponine's breathing has steadied and her tremors have subsided.

She's not so thoughtless nor so callous not to have realized that she's left Combeferre largely neglected, while he turned the considerable force of his attention onto her. But when she slides her hand down his chest and stomach to the front of his trousers, where the evidence of his desire is still straining against it, he draws a sharp breath and reaches down to still her. "Éponine," he says softly, stroking his fingers over the back of her hand. "You don't have to. I'm glad just to have been here with you like this. We don't have to-- If you--"

She breathes a gentle sigh against his mouth and carefully takes her hand out from beneath his and resumes working her way down the row of buttons securing his trousers. She knows the word he's thinking of, the word he's trying to avoid because she's told him how it upsets her. "I'm not here because I have to be," she tells him quietly, the buttons giving way beneath her fingers. "I didn't do any of this because I had to. I'm here because I wanted this." The last button comes free and she slides her hand within, takes him in her grasp and warms with satisfaction at his ragged gasp. "Because I want you."

"I only meant--" His words are choked, coming a little faster now, each one tripping over the next. "If you're satisfied--"

"I'm not," she says, and with one hand on his chest, pushes him over onto his back.

He subsides without protest, and lifts his hips for her when she draws his trousers down. And then they're both naked, nothing at all left between them but their skin, and she's very steady and very sure as she shifts a leg over Combeferre so that she's straddling his waist, her hands braced on his chest.

He catches his breath again, though his hands settle onto her hips. "God," he breathes, staring up at her like she's a goddess come before him, reverent and awed. "You must still be tender--"

"I want this," she tells him, and he subsides. His hands go tight around her hips when she reaches down to grasp him, to put him at just the right angle so she can lower herself onto him.

He's not wrong. She still feels swollen and oversensitive, and the stretch of her body as it adjusts to accommodate him makes her catch her breath. He makes a low, distressed sound when she does, and brings a hand up to her cheek, and she wants to laugh and tell him that he shouldn't look so solemn in a moment like this, but any movement threatens to turn the stretch into discomfort.

"I'm fine," she breathes, and takes his hand in hers and presses a kiss to his palm. "I'm fine, I'm fine. Just give me a moment."

He does, holding her carefully, keeping so still beneath her. It's only a moment before the stretch begins to ease and she can move above him, though only small, rocking motions at first, the slightest of movements. She must be driving him out of his mind with what she's promised and then withheld, she thinks, but he shows no sign of impatience, only watches her with that same open expression of mingled love and concern.

He cups her breast in his palm, supporting its weight as she leans forward onto the hand she's braced on his chest. When his touch makes her gasp and rock her hips firmly against his, he gets a considering look and leans up to mouth at her other breast.

She shuts her eyes, breathing unsteadily and making little sharp, cut-off noises. She's tender here, too, but it's good. It helps. When she rocks her hips again, it feels good, only a twinge of soreness reminding her that her body's been worked hard already tonight.

She stays like that, braced above him, rocking onto him in little movements with every touch of his tongue and caress of his fingers, until gradually _too much_ becomes _not enough_ , and she lifts up until only the head of him is inside her and her thighs tremble with the strain, and then sinks down in a solid, sure stroke.

He makes a hoarse, punched-out noise and scrapes her just a little with the edge of his teeth as his mouth gapes open, and she shudders and does it again, and again.

He groans like he's dying as she moves over him, and pulls away from her breast, gasping, only to curl in tighter and press his brow against her chest. She holds onto him, fingers brushing through his hair as he pants against her, his breath hot and damp and stuttering every time she takes him into her. And it must be uncomfortable to be bent like that, but his arms are a vise around her and his fingers press hard against her sides like he can't bear the thought of letting her go, so she tucks her fingers beneath his chin and tips his face up to hers and murmurs, "Come here," and he leans up to meet her kiss.

She stretches out over him slowly, easing him down onto his back, and it's good like this, too. She's over him, one hand braced on the bed beside his shoulder, the other curved against his jaw as she kisses him. He can move a little better like this, too, flexing his hips up to meet her every time she lowers herself onto him, and there's a rhythm to it that makes the breath thick and heavy in her lungs, makes her shudder above him and pleasure curl through her, as thick as honey, as heady as wine.

It's a delicious sort of pleasure, feeling him move against her, kissing his moans from his lips, feeling him shudder beneath her every time she moves. It doesn't take long before they're both sticky with sweat, the air hot and close around them. It's not long after that when her arms start to ache from holding herself up, and her movements over him get sharp and a little bit desperate. He pulls her down, then, like he knows, wraps his arms around her and holds her against him as his hips flex, driving up into her.

She was close to begin with, still over sensitive and hovering on the edge from her first climax. She's closer now, the shivering promise of another rippling through her, but Combeferre looks equally desperate, and she doesn't want to leave him behind. So she tightens around him, and shifts the angle of her hips to try to make it better for him, and draws a hand down his chest to catch his nipple between her fingers, and see if he likes it half so well as she does.

Maybe that's what does it, or maybe he was closer than he let on, because as soon as she sweeps her thumb around his nipple and tightens around him, he makes a choked, strangled noise and grabs onto her waist, and his hips stutter against hers before locking tight.

She can feel the heat of him deep inside her, and she pants against his throat and holds still for him, letting him shudder through his own release. Her heart's battering against her ribs but it doesn't matter, not when he's holding her so close and he's breathing, "Éponine, my god, Éponine," like it's a prayer.

When he's gone still inside her and begun to soften, she lifts herself up off of him, though the feel of him sliding out of her makes her hiss air through her teeth and fight the urge to just pull him close all over again. His hands tighten momentarily on her hips, like maybe he feels the same way, and she smiles and slides off of him, so he doesn't have to bear her weight, but stays pressed in close at his side.

He curls his arm around her, holding her there and breathing against her hair, and she tells herself she's content with this. The heat prickling through her disagrees, but the heat will fade, and she's so glad just to be held close, sharing their warmth between them.

He shifts his arms around her, repositions her against him so that he's pressed to her back, his arms wrapped around her middle and his knees slotted behind hers. It's close enough to how they've been sleeping that she settles into his embrace at once. She's too aware of him behind her to sleep easily yet, she thinks, but she can think of worse ways to pass the time until sleep comes than cradled in the arms of her husband.

She scarcely takes note of it when the hand Combeferre has spread over her stomach slips down low across her belly. She certainly understands the urge to want to explore every inch of skin before her, now that she's allowed to.

She very much notices when the hand on her belly slips down between her legs and he slides a finger between her lips to find her wet and waiting, the fires banked but ready to be stoked back to life with a moment's coaxing.

She lets out her breath in surprise, moans, "Combeferre--" and then is left gasping for air and trying to remember why she meant to protest.

"You didn't think I hadn't noticed, did you?" he murmurs, warm and close against her ear. He kisses just behind it, where her skin is soft and sensitive, and then leaves a dusting of them across her neck and shoulder as he works his fingers over her.

"You don't--" she gasps, arching into his hands despite herself, a shudder coursing through her. She's sensitive still, overworked to the point where every touch dances on the line between pleasure and pain, but it's an exquisite sort of agony. "I already--"

He hums acknowledgment, though she can't gather enough of her wits to say what she truly means. "You did," he agrees quietly, and finds a place that makes everything light up like a lightning flash across the sky when he strokes his finger across it. "And it was glorious. And you can again, if you want." He teases at her entrance without pressing in, and leaves her gaping, gasping, shuddering desperately in his arms. "Or we could sleep, if it's too much." His touch gentles, leaves her with her head spinning like the floor's suddenly vanished beneath her feet. He leaves kisses across her back to her other shoulder, and lavishes it with the same careful attention. "I told you, I want you to be happy. I want you to feel good. Just tell me what you want."

"Don't stop now," she gasps, and twists until she can catch him behind the neck and pull him into a kiss.

He hums against her mouth, lips curved like he's happy with her answer. His fingers are too clever on her, too skilled, he shouldn't know her body so well so soon. He brings her back to the edge in moments, holding her as she shudders and kissing her through it. And when she's nearly there, so close her whole body is straining towards it, he brings a hand up to cup her cheek and draws back from the kiss.

She blinks her eyes open just as he slides his finger through her folds again, and everything in her goes bright and hot, and her orgasm courses through her. She gasps and shakes in his arms and he watches her through it, his eyes on hers the whole time, his expression so gentle and so awed.

She pulls him back for another kiss, and he lets her, kisses her slow and deep through the last, shivering aftershocks, and then settles her in close against him.

She wriggles in his arms until he loosens them, just enough that she can finish turning, facing him fully. His skin is hot against hers and they're touching everywhere, pressed against each other from their chests to their knees. It should be uncomfortable, being wrapped in all that heat, but it just feels good. She watches him for a moment, watching the happiness flicker through his expression, and then tucks her head against his chest and wraps her arms around his back to hold him close.

He hums again, a soft sound that reverberates against the ear she has pressed to his chest, and fits his arms more securely around her. "The hour's grown late, and we'll both be weary in the morning."

She doesn't feel worn, she feels vibrant and alive, but she also feels like she never wants to move from this bed, or from his embrace. She lets out a long, content sigh and settles into the circle of his arms.

It isn't long before sleep pulls her under, and as she drifts off, the last thing she's aware of is Combeferre's gentle sigh ruffling through her hair, of him murmuring, "My wife," in gentle tones of surprise and joy, like he's only now come to believe it's true.

She thinks she should say something in response, but she isn't sure what, and her thoughts slip away from her as she tries to gather them, until all is the peaceful dark of a dreamless sleep.

*

In the morning the bed is empty but warm and the smell of something lovely fills the air. She rises and dresses, and if there's a soreness in her muscles that hadn't been there the day before, it only makes her smile to herself and press her fingers into the sore places, remembering Combeferre's hands there the night before.

She dresses quickly and walks out in her bare feet, braiding her hair over her shoulder, to find Azelma and Gavroche both awake and at the table, halfway through plates of crêpes that smell positively decadent. She gives them each a hug from behind and kisses them both, then goes into the kitchen to find Combeferre with his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows, a plate of fresh crêpes at his side and another cooking in the stovetop.

He turns to her as she lingers in the kitchen doorway, a smile lighting up his face. "How did you sleep?"

She laughs quietly and comes forward to stand beside him. "Longer than I should have, I think. You should have woken me."

"You needed the sleep." He curls a hand around her arm and draws her in, bends down and gives her a warm, lingering kiss that makes her sigh and lean towards him.

When he draws back, she smiles up at him and says, "You're going to burn that."

"I'll make another," he says, laughing, and guides her in again.

When they part so that he can tend to the crêpe — overdone, but not burnt, and he laughingly declares that he'll eat that one as penance for his inattention — she plucks one of the fresh ones from the plate and eats it while it's still steaming.

It's rich with butter and herbs he must have gone to the market for, because she's sure they didn't have any the night before, and she hums happily and licks the butter from her fingers. "I should have let you cook us breakfast from the start, I think."

His eyes glint with humor as he glances sidelong at her. "I did try, you may recall."

She laughs, easy and free, and takes another crêpe from the plate. "Though if you plied us with butter every morning, I fear we'd soon find ourselves in the poorhouse."

He grins and kisses her again, like he can't bring himself to stop now that he's been given leave to start. "We're celebrating," he says. "We can afford a bit of extravagance, to commemorate our success."

"I suppose we can," she says, smiling back at him, and stays there at his side while he finishes cooking.

When the platter is piled high with fresh crêpes and the bowl of batter is empty, they carry it out to join the children at the table. Gavroche snatches two off the top eagerly, though Azelma waits until Éponine and Combeferre have served themselves before reaching for more.

"I got cider, too," Combeferre says, making to rise to his feet before he's even touched his food. "Since we're celebrating. It's just in the icebox—"

Éponine catches him by the arm and tugs him back down into his chair beside her. "Sit," she says, and stands instead. "Eat, while it's still hot. You did all that work cooking, you should get to enjoy it. I'll get the cider."

He subsides without protest, and she's back in a moment with the cider, nicely chilled, and glasses for everyone. She pours for the children, then for Combeferre and herself, and when she leans down to set his glass before him, he steals a kiss, and murmurs, "Thank you," as they part.

She flushes, warm and pleased, and settles into her own chair. And when she does, she notices Azelma's attention on both of them, gone deep and contemplative, and Éponine blushes even harder.

"You didn't do that when you married," she says, like she knows it means something.

Éponine clears her throat. "No," she agrees quietly. "We didn't." And she leans across the table towards her, and taps a bit of torn paper that Azelma is idly tracing patterns onto with her fingertips. "What are you making?"

Azelma's eyes light up. "It's a charm. Do you want to see?"

She offers it out and Éponine takes it, tracing her own fingers across the paper and feeling the pattern of magic woven there. "What does it do?"

"It scares spiders away." Azelma drops her voice to a hush and leans in like she's imparting a secret to whisper, "There was one in our room this morning."

"I'm surprised the shrieking didn't wake you up," Combeferre says as he reaches for another crêpe. "It was a somewhat startling awakening. For everyone involved, I suspect," he adds, smiling past Éponine at Azelma, who grins back at him, pulling her shoulders up a little in bashfulness.

"You should've seen him," she whispers to Éponine, and giggles. "He came running in to save us in his nightshirt."

"I'd already killed it," Gavroche offers, sounding somehow both begrudging and proud.

Éponine smile and leans across the table to ruffle his hair. "You are very brave." And to Azelma, she says, "I wish I had seen it. That sounds like a sight."

And it's all addressed to Azelma, but her gaze slides sideways at the end, seeking out Combeferre and finding him watching her in return, smiling at her, and her heart gives a little kick against her breastbone and she finds she can't look away.

Gavroche says something across the table, and Azelma answers him, and the sounds of their conversation fill their little home. When Combeferre lays his hand on the table between them, palm facing up, she slips hers into it and holds onto him.

Later, when they've all made quick work of the cleanup together and moved out to the sitting room, Éponine watches Gavroche and Azelma play from the settee, and Combeferre brings her a cup of tea and settles in at her side, his thigh pressed along hers, their elbows brushing.

"You seem happy," he says, tucking back a strand of hair that's escaped from her braid.

She leans in against him, her head on his shoulder, and he slides his arm around her back like he knows she wants it there. At their feet, Gavroche has done something that amuses Azelma, and she flops onto her back with peals of laughter. "I never thought I could be so happy," she admits in a whisper, and doesn't miss the way his arm tightens around her, like he'd stand between her and unhappiness if given half the chance. "I didn't think it was meant for people like us. You gave us this," she murmurs, tipping her face up to him.

Combeferre is quiet for a long moment, looking out at Azelma and Gavroche playing on the rug. Gavroche has decided to press his advantage and started tickling Azelma, while she shrieks and kicks at him, but grabs into his arm and keeps him near when he starts to pull away. "This was a quiet house, a few months ago," he says softly, and Éponine feels a flash of guilt before he continues. "And an empty one. It was just me and my work, and I thought I enjoyed it that way. And then—" He takes a deep, deep breath, then lets it out slowly. "And then you came, all of you, and it was only then that I realized how empty and lonely it really was." He turns, then, to face her, and catches both her hands in his. "I'm glad to have made you happy, I am. More than words can say. But don't think that you haven't given me just as much in return. You gave me a family, Éponine, when I had never even realized I wanted one."

Éponine blinks rapidly, fighting back a choking flood of tears. "We gave it to each other."

He wipes at her eyes, though she hadn't thought she'd let the tears fall, and leans in to kiss her, gently, sweetly, until Gavroche starts making gagging noises from the floor and Azelma elbows him in the ribs with a quelling look. "So we did."

Éponine tucks her feet up under her and leans in against his side, secure in the loop of his arm around her shoulders. She has her husband beside her and her siblings happy and carefree at her feet. She has her family with her, the ones that matter, the ones she claimed for herself, and it's somehow feels like both more than she could have ever hoped for and the start of something even more wonderful, the future spooling out ahead of her, more brilliant and hopeful than she could have ever dreamed.


End file.
